


Sunt Lacrimae Rerum

by CalliopeConfetti



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Drama & Romance, F/M, Forbidden Love, Magical Realism, POV Hermione Granger, POV Severus Snape, Plot, Sexual Content, Slow Build, morally ambiguous snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 88,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalliopeConfetti/pseuds/CalliopeConfetti
Summary: An unexpected encounter with Severus Snape in the Forest of Dean and an admission of his true loyalty to the Order leave Hermione Granger longing to learn more about the enigmatic man. This sparks a secret correspondence that grows more intimate with every exchange, leading both of them to engage in increasingly risky and dangerous behavior as they attempt to navigate the forbidden territory that stands between them.





	1. Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

> _"Sunt lacrimae rerum..." - Virgil (There are tears for things)_

  ****

_"...Severus nodded and grasped Hermione's hands, curling them firmly around the vial of phoenix tears again, before he let go and departed..."_

**I. Nocturne**

_By Calliope Confetti_

_The following scenes occur concurrently with the actions featured in the chapter "The Silver Doe" in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows…_

The wind lashed at Severus, stinging his face as he wound his way through the Forest of Dean. The cape of the hooded traveling cloak he'd donned prior to his departure snapped in the wind and seemed to catch on every rogue branch and bramble; he cursed under his breath as he attempted to disentangle it from the limb of a dead oak that had jutted into his path. The sounds of the forest provided welcome cover for his footsteps crunching through the snow-crusted leaves which blanketed the forest floor.

Without warning, a lightning scream pierced the air, striking him with a paralyzing jolt of fear that electrocuted his nerve-endings and arrested the night. Immediately, his unconscious reached an incontrovertible conclusion—it was the sound of a woman screaming—a thought that triggered an invasive sense of déjà vu that threatened to overwhelm him.

Another haunting scream sent a shiver through the trees, tinkling the icicles that clung to their barren branches, and he could feel his heartbeat throbbing hotly in his ears. A final scream sent fissures through the infinitesimal moment of silence that had preceded it, but further exposure to the sound gave him pause, invoking his rationality—the unknown voice lacked any intonation indicative of human speech, each of its subsequent cries a perfect echo of its first.

As if on cue, the true culprit padded through a skift of snow to cross Severus's path, and he berated himself for his failure to recognize the cry of a red fox, an animal infamous for its disturbing mimicry of a woman's scream. The strangulating hands of fear that had been crushing his throat released their hold, and he heaved a sigh of relief. The air, heavy with frost crystals and cold, felt denser in his lungs now that he could finally breathe again. The sensation that followed the neutralization of the threat proved euphoric yet fleeting, as his brain buzzed with the latent paranoia that formed in its wake and left him feeling exposed, naked as the surrounding trees.

The entire episode had put him on edge and agitated his senses into a heightened state, rendering him hyper-aware of his surroundings. After taking a moment to lean heavily against a tree and compose himself, Severus proceeded to venture deeper into the forest. No longer deafened by fear, he heard the sparse forest chorus start up again—an owl's lone sonata accompanied by the faint rush and crackle of an ice-impeded creek. He found himself in a cluster of evergreens, comprised of trees so dense that the moonlight could hardly penetrate the geometric effect created by their interlocking needles, so he paused for a moment, withdrew his wand, and spoke quietly, "Lumos."

The Dark Mark on Severus's left forearm prickled as if with needles that had first been thrust into a fire, and his anxiety mounted within him—his abrupt and unexplained departure had aroused the suspicions of the Carrow siblings, the deputy headmasters, who resented Severus's high standing among the Death Eaters and who had likely already reported his curious behavior to the Dark Lord in order to gain favor. As Severus maneuvered through the trees, his movements jostled the sword of Gryffindor that he'd sheathed and strapped to his shoulder, hidden by his cloak.

The earthy scent of leaves decaying on the forest floor mingled with that of the freshly snow-laden firs with their bowing boughs, interspersed with piney hints of juniper. On his next breath, Severus caught another note—a telltale wisp of wood-smoke on the wind. Only then, when he knew with certainty that he would soon come upon their campsite, did he mull over the half-formed plan he'd spoken of so confidently to Dumbledore's portrait hours before. Finding a foolproof way to surreptitiously present the sword to Potter had been easy; the boy had a sentimental bent that left him prone to reckless and irrational behavior, so the appearance of a phantom of his mother's Patronus would provoke an overpowering emotional response, one capable of conquering any lingering doubts to ultimately win his trust—mesmerizing him and leaving him powerless to resist the urge to follow after her.

Severus patted his pocket to confirm that the other item Dumbledore had entrusted him with had survived the journey; thankfully, he felt the vial of phoenix tears intact and still stoppered, safe at his side. Initially, he had adamantly refused to fulfill Dumbledore's request for him to personally deliver the vial to its intended recipient to ensure that it made it directly into the right hands—right into the hands of Hermione Granger, that is—and he balked at his insistence that he relay the contents and purpose of said vial to her. But then he uncovered the fact that Dumbledore's "request" was actually an order in polite disguise.

Still, his reluctant acquiescence was the culmination of months of countless heated arguments that went round for round until one of them inevitably reached their breaking or boiling point—almost always Severus, who rivaled Albus in stubbornness but lacked his unparalleled patience and who detested Albus's unwavering belief in the righteousness of his convictions. And while Dumbledore's immortalization in portrait form infuriatingly afforded him all the time in the world to devote to strengthening and reintroducing his argument to wear Severus down, Severus's current position as headmaster and Order spy forced him to attend to a barrage of more pressing concerns.

Severus shook his head at the thought before making a mental inventory of all he knew about Hermione Granger, the insufferable know-it-all who boasted the annoying habit of constantly thrusting her hand in the air, practically waving him down, in response to every question he posed in class, as well as boasting a curiosity with the power to kill countless cats. While sentimentality and emotion crippled Potter, Hermione's unquenchable thirst for knowledge proved to be her greatest weakness—as well as her greatest strength (wit beyond measure…thought Severus, wondering, as he often did, why the girl wasn't sorted into Ravenclaw with others of her ilk). When he remembered the "S.P.E.W." campaign he'd heard students and professors alike sniggering about in the halls and in the staffroom, he reassured himself of the fact that she was unlikely to Avada him at first glance—her compassion for all creatures would benefit him too.

Severus stopped cold and his thoughts trailed off when he spotted the amber glow of an occupied tent between the trees. "Nox!" he spat, which shrouded him in darkness once again. The fire illuminated the clearing and showed Harry sitting silhouetted against the canvas tent like a character in a shadow play.

Correctly intuiting that Hermione had fortified the twosome's camp with as many protective enchantments and repelling charms as she could think of or dream up, he moved carefully about the perimeter of the campsite until he came upon a frozen pond a few miles away. The glassy surface of the ice gleamed with a prismatic sheen in the moonlight. He had hoped for such an ideal hiding place but had feared he may not have one at his disposal.

Severus keenly surveyed his surroundings before furtively unsheathing the sword he'd strapped to his back. The burnished steel of the blade flickered with his reflection as he did so, and for once, he didn't despise his own mirrored image, and he studied his hooded face, cast in shadow, his obsidian eyes flickering back with the moonlight than shined white on the sword. With his teeth, Severus removed his leather glove and then grasped the icy metal of its gilded hilt, smirking smugly at the idea of a Slytherin wielding the legendary Gryffindor treasure. He took a deep breath and gripped the sword, plunging his hand into icy water, which strangely assuaged the pain of the burning mark.

Severus withdrew his hand from the pond and regarded the sword's jeweled hilt as rubies darkened into garnets glinting through the undulating black waters he had disturbed. Muttering a spell, Severus re-froze that portion of the pond, leaving the sword half-obscured by a translucent layer of ice that whitened as the snow continued to fall and skitter across it. He performed a quick drying charm on his numbing hand before re-donning his glove and making his way back toward the clearing where Harry and Hermione had pitched their tent.

Severus performed a complicated revealing charm on the perimeter, which he could distinguish by the way it crackled electrically in such a palpable way that he could feel the static it produced. A rush of spells came to his mind and he struggled to catalogue and remember them all as he began the arduous process of disenchanting each one enough to allow him a small opening in the invisible shield through which to pass undetected. Almost an hour later, he had succeeded, but he knew his spells wouldn't hold for longer than a few hours, so he needed to hurry.

Severus passed through the break he'd created, and walked lightly and tentatively towards the tent. "Expecto Patronum," he whispered, muffling his voice with his gloved hand; his breath dissipated into the thin winter air from between his fingers.

The doe bounded from the tip of his wand, a beautiful silver specter in the darkness. Severus smiled genuinely at her as he willed her to do his bidding by following his plan to reveal the location of the sword to Harry. The doe nodded, as if she understood, before leaping through the forest to the entrance of the tent, leaving long-exposure trails from her hooves. Her ghostly presence sparkled brilliantly in the firelight and she paused while Harry admired her with wonder. When she made as if to depart, Harry scrambled to his feet, "No! Come back!" he called out to her hoarsely.

Holding his breath, Severus hung back on tenterhooks, and he watched Harry follow her with nary a moment's hesitation. Harry's cry had stirred Hermione from a light and restless sleep, and Severus watched her hover at the entrance of the tent; he could read her body language well enough to discern the tension in her rigid stance which revealed that she was a millisecond away from breaking into a sprint to follow after him, but her caution prevailed, and the taut muscles in her back relaxed perceptibly.

Severus swallowed against the anxiety he felt welling inside of him, and as though his will was not his own, he stepped forward and approached her. Seemingly transfixed, Hermione stared in the direction that Harry had disappeared within the maze of trees. Slowly, Severus slunk towards her until he was only about five yards away from her, and he held a trembling, balled up hand to his mouth and cleared his throat audibly. He watched her stiffen instantly and wheel around on her heel, her wand gripped with such force that he thought it might snap in two.

Staring into the darkness, she turned in every direction, her eyes darting over the scene, exhaling short puffs of breath that betrayed her confident fighting stance. Her eyes finally fell on the fixed point in the dark where he stood in shadow, and her eyes narrowed. "Who's there?" she quavered; he understood the reason for her hesitance—anyone who could pass through the tangle of shields she'd thrown up likely had to be a friend. "R-Ron?" she stammered, frightened. Severus's lip curled at the mention of the Weasley boy as he removed his hood and stepped into the pulsing sphere of light cast by the fire.

Stunned, Hermione gaped at him, seemingly rooted to the spot where she stood, "You?!" she snarled, and she lunged at him like she had suddenly broken free from invisible bonds. He kept still and put his hands up in a show of no intent to harm, and she stopped in her tracks when, to her shock and horror and amazement, he purposefully dropped his wand, letting it fall soundlessly into the snow. After a beat of rest, Hermione shook herself; now unfazed by his unexplained disarmament, she rocketed toward him in raw, unbridled anger, battering him with blows from her fists and switching him with her wand, landing its pointed tip dangerously close to his eyes.

"Granger! Granger!" he spat, holding his outstretched arms crossed to attempt to deflect her attacks away from his face.

"'Give me a reason!'" She smiled maniacally, pointing the tip of her wand directly between his eyes. Severus noted something peculiar about her "wand," and upon this forced closer inspection, he realized curiously that she wielded only an innocuous wand-like stick. She noticed him staring at the decoy wand, and she screamed obscenities at him that echoed in the night.

In a panic, Severus grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off the ground, where she flailed at him and tried to bite him until he somehow managed to lock his arms around her shoulders, restraining her arms to her sides, leaving them to struggle and strain against his hold; her "wand" had been dropped in the assault.

"Listen to me, I'm here not as a Death Eater, but as an Order member still—I never defected," Severus hissed.

She writhed against his hold and began to argue, but he silenced her with a wandless spell. Tears of fear and rage welled in her eyes, eyes that irradiated him the hatred they contained.

Changing tactics, Severus sighed, "Miss Granger, listen to me," he repeated firmly, "I know you've had your doubts about me, doubts about whether I'm truly working for the Dark Lord." She shook her head roughly in denial.

"You've had reservations plaguing you, I know," he whispered silkily, and she appeared confused by his softened tone. "You are a smart witch, and even I know you've read and re-read 'Hogwarts: A History' so many times that it far exceeds any semblance of normalcy."

She seemed disarmed by his surprising compliment, an effect he had counted on. "So, I'm sure you know, being as clever as you are, that Hogwarts chooses its Headmaster—the Headmaster cannot force himself on Hogwarts, it will not yield to him, as it is a nearly sentient magical entity."

Searching Hermione's eyes, Severus saw the flicker of recognition that he had sought. "Ah." He lifted his chin in affirmation, "but of course you know that—you've thought about it, endlessly I'll bet, even here in the forest while out on the lam." Severus spoke in a stage whisper, his voice scarily, clinically calm, "You've obsessed over the fact that the headmaster's quarters barred Professor Umbridge's entry, yet I freely occupy those same quarters, a fact which your friends have no doubt informed you of, as they have so often earned the pleasure of visiting me in my office—the headmaster's office, I must reiterate. If the Dark Lord wasn't so impressed with himself and his knowledge and deigned to pick up a book, like you, it may have given me away."

Hermione's eyes widened and she stilled, seemingly waiting for him to continue. "So, now that we have established that Hogwarts chooses its headmaster, then it would follow that, because I was chosen for appointment, there must be a reason—another fact which has given you pause, that has set to work the wheels of your mind—that beautiful mind—and it has revealed other inconsistencies, hasn't it?" She looked away from him, closing her eyes against his words, which he read as another affirmation.

"To not answer is to answer, Miss Granger," he whispered, his lips almost grazing her ear. When she flinched, he came to his senses and backed off—although he loathed to admit it, he was having a perverse sort of fun toying with her, and it felt exhilarating to be doing this off-the-cuff with some success.

"You've wondered why I kept Potter and, by extension, you, alive throughout your formative years before you or I knew the Dark Lord was even alive. Why did he brew Lupin's Wolfsbane? Surely even Dumbledore couldn't have pressured a man under his employ of such questionable repute to brew a potion for a friend of his childhood nemesis?" Severus said softly, self-referentially.

"Furthermore, why would a man in the Dark Lord's employ deliver Potter's coded message to Dumbledore, alerting him to the supposed capture of his Godfather in the Department of Mysteries?" Severus asked rhetorically. Hermione frowned, but she now held his gaze, seemingly captivated in spite of herself.

Noticing this, Snape smiled smugly. "Do I have your attention?" She glared at him; ready with a retort, she opened her mouth before closing it again resignedly when no sound came out, and she remembered his muffling charm remained in force.

"And why on earth would Professor Dumbledore ask for me, holding off Draco, talking him down, until my arrival, only to say 'Severus, please?'" Severus growled, as his anger spiked along with the volume of his voice, his face contorted with rage. Hermione cowed to him as he inadvertently constricted her in his hold. "And afterward, Potter pursued me onto the grounds and attempted to subject me to the soul-damaging and unforgivable Cruciatus, as well as a bevy of other curses, among them ones that I myself created—I only deflected his attacks; I didn't attack him, save for an instance of uncontrolled magic when he called me…never mind that—and all I said was that his life was to be spared 'for the dark lord' not that I couldn't deliver him to the Dark Lord or at least send a few parting curses his way!" Severus finished breathlessly.

The image his words evoked in his mind transported him into the past, to that very moment; in recall, as Bellatrix ignited Hagrid's hut, he felt as if he were choking on the smoke, and he could practically feel the sweltering heat rolling from the flames that engulfed the house as he roared at Potter above the din of the hellish scene unfolding behind him. When he snapped out of the scene, his eyes re-focused on Hermione, who was shaking and cowering to him, no longer attempting to free herself, and he saw her crying—a discovery that left him feeling the weight of palpable shame sink his stomach, knowing he'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his sincerity and shock clear in his stark tone. He loosened his grip around her, yet she still didn't struggle for her freedom. Perplexed, he lowered her towards the ground, where she refused to put her feet under her until she was close enough to the snow that she could slide out of grasp and onto the cold ground. She sobbed, her tears falling and melting the snow.

Severus's shame intensified when he realized they were tears of relief as well as sorrow—she had thought he was going to hurt her or rape her or worse. Lifting the muffling charm with a wave of his hand, Severus hung his head, slouching as he dropped to his knees on the snow beside her. "I wasn't going to cause you any harm," he said softly.

"Why should I believe you? Why should I take your word for any of this?" she cried sharply.

Severus cocked his head thoughtfully for a moment, "Well," he began, pausing as he parsed over his words, "have you not had those doubts, those thoughts…about me?"

Hermione sniffled, nodding as she spoke, "Yes, every single one, and more than that. Why do you think I didn't Avada you as soon as I realized it was you under that cloak?"

You mean other than the fact that the only weapon you have to speak of is a stick? thought Severus, but he decided to humor her. Unwittingly, he smiled. "Because your curiosity as to why I was standing there overruled your good sense. And I was hoping your compassion for magical creatures extended beyond house-elves to cover surly potions professors alike," he offered lightly.

Hermione snorted and laughed, before covering her mouth in surprise, realizing how inappropriate laughing would be under the circumstances. She cleared her throat, injecting seriousness into her tone. "Your first guess was correct—if you would've banked on the second one being true I think you would've found yourself sorely wrong—and you certainly wouldn't be here talking with me now."

Severus smirked appreciatively at the ire behind her jab and her quick wit. Hermione saw this and averted her eyes shyly. "I have so many questions," she braved hopefully.

"Knowing you, I'd advise you to pare them down to the ones giving you the most pause," he replied, still smirking.

She glared at him. "Well," she stumbled over her words when she realized he was correct—the number of questions she had was staggering. She selected the question that had bothered her most. "Why did you kill professor Dumbledore?"

Somehow intuiting that this would be the first question to pass her lips, Severus sighed. "Well," Severus began, before closing his mouth and reminding himself that he needed to appeal to Hermione's logic—he must avoid making any justifications. "Because he asked me to," Snape said simply, waving his hand dismissively when he saw Hermione attempting to interrupt. "Because, Miss Granger, Albus had made the mistake of attempting to wear Marvolo Gaunt's ring."

Hermione's eyes widened and he recognized her eager expression as the look she donned each time her hand inevitably shot into the air in his class. "Yes, which as you now know, was a Horcrux—one which contained a powerful and ultimately fatal curse. Albus asked that I take a look his hand, and when I examined it, I knew he likely only had one year to live—and that was my liberal estimate. To Albus, this proved most opportune. You see, after Lucius's failure to obtain the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, the Dark Lord sought to punish him, so he selected his son for an unthinkable task, one he knew to be nearly impossible for a boy of Draco's age to carry out—to murder Albus, easily one of the most powerful wizards alive at the time, if not the most powerful. The old man seemed more concerned for the boy's soul than for his own life or either my soul or my life," Severus scoffed before admitting, "which was his way, I suppose. So, as it was likely that the Dark Lord would assign me the task if Draco failed, Albus asked me to kill him—to put him out of his misery, the way he worded it—in Draco's stead. And I agreed…" Severus trailed off, the finality of "and I did so" hung in the air, acknowledged, albeit unspoken.

Severus, who had been staring at a fixed point in the snow while he spoke, turned toward Hermione, unsure of what emotions he would see inevitably splayed across her face. "Oh, Professor…" she whispered with empathy, sobered by his confession.

"I essentially held you against your will and yet you still call me 'professor.' Incorrigible, Miss Granger," he chided her snidely, eyes flickering with a hint of gallows' humor.

"Yet you still address me as if I'm a student." She sneered in a startling facsimile of his own, before adding, "I assume you know my name after all these years?"

Severus obstinately went back and forth over whether to admit that he did, before he finally sighed, conceding, "Ok, Hermione."

When he finally said her name, she had been absently tracing patterns in the snow with the stick serving as her wand, and she looked at him incredulously. Bemused, Severus's lips quirked into a small smile, and he noted that, oddly, she appeared flushed from something other than the wind and cold…the cold, he remembered, as he just then grew conscious of the cold, noticing that his legs were going numb from kneeling beside her in the snow.

Hermione seemed to read him in turn, an observation that alarmed him. "Come, you can sit by the fire for a bit before you have to go." Severus stood up and made his way over to the fire, where he sat down and relished in the warmth of her signature bluebell flames, sitting so close to the fire that they nearly licked the soles of his boots.

"Here," she murmured—from somewhere, Hermione had procured a cup of tea. Severus stared at her quizzically for a moment before accepting it, hoping she hadn't beguiled him with her overtures of understanding and laced it with poison.

"Thank you," Severus whispered, guarding himself against seeming too eager to accept her small token of hospitality.

"What should I call you then?" she asked him as he sipped his tea; he appeared lost in thought.

"What's that?" replied Severus, stirred from his reverie.

"What should I call you, sir, if professor won't suffice?" Hermione inquired quietly.

"'I assume you know my name after all these years,'" he mocked her teasingly, and she blushed and squirmed as he eyed her amusedly.

She attempted to process his request. "Severus," she enunciated each syllable, like his name was a word she was unsure how to pronounce correctly—or as if she was uncertain that it was even a word at all, before she voiced what was presently on her mind, "I have more questions."

"Undoubtedly," he acknowledged with a smirk before he added, "but I fear our time is running thin. Perhaps, I will answer them at a future time."

Aghast and flustered, she weakly protested, "But…but?"

"I'll let you ask one more," he purred.

Her eyes glimmered with hope, so that they danced in the firelight. "I haven't told you why I am here," he reminded her silkily.

She appeared puzzled until she realized his lead-in. "Why are you here, Prof—Severus?"

"Albus sent me," Severus answered.

"What?!" gasped Hermione.

"His portrait, Hermione." Severus sighed, kneading his brow.

When he saw her look sheepishly to the ground, he knew she felt stupid for forgetting that Albus still existed in portrait form—he thought it seemed like an unfamiliar expression on her.

"He sent me with something for Potter. And something he entrusted me to give to you," Severus explained as he unbuttoned his pocket to retrieve the vial of phoenix tears.

"What did he send for Harry?" she asked quickly, glossing over the second part of his statement, the one that pertained to her.

"Do you always concern yourself for him above yourself?" Severus asked, shaking his head in quiet disapproval, before he continued, "And the question and answer session is over, I'm afraid."

"You think now is the time for sarcasm?" she snapped in exasperation.

Severus furtively looked left and right to reassure himself that they were totally alone. "He sent me with the sword of Gryffindor so I could plant it for Potter to find, but he absolutely cannot know," stressed Severus.

Hermione regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "But then… that was your patronus?" she asked, stunned. For a moment, Severus regretted the fact that she had outwitted him there. He bowed his head in silence.

"'To not answer is to answer,' Severus." She smiled haughtily before she appeared lost in thought again. "But it's a doe…that's the same as Harry's mother's." She looked him up and down, curiously.

"I had no idea," Snape replied curtly in a way that communicated to her that the discussion was over. "As I was saying," his eyes narrowed for a moment, then he went on, "Albus entrusted me with this. We had a discussion about the snake, and he…we thought it prudent that you should have it." Snape withdrew the vial from his pocket and pressed in into her hand before gently cupping his hands around hers to curl her fingers around it for safekeeping, lingering for a moment. "He calls the snake Nagini. That vial contains phoenix tears, which, in case you've forgotten…" He knew she hadn't forgotten even before she interrupted him.

"…Can be used to heal basilisk bites, as well as an antidote to the venom of other snakes," she finished his sentence for him.

"Correct." Snape smiled. "10 points for Gryffindor," he proclaimed slyly, which made Hermione laugh, unabashedly this time.

"Severus, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" She smirked equally slyly. It was Severus's turn to laugh; it was a raucous sound, foreign-sounding in its sheer disuse. She looked taken aback.

"I suppose that is the age old question, Miss—Hermione." as he turned on his heel to walk away, Hermione threw caution to the wind and grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

"You're not going to obliviate me after all you've told me?"

"No. Did you want me to? Also, I believe that's a question…" he began.

"Answer me!" she demanded, before withdrawing. "Please," she added demurely in a way that made Severus chuckle.

"Albus trusted me to relay this information to you, well, most of it—I'll admit I went a little beyond what we'd discussed—and although I still find you an insufferable know-it-all, and I detest you the majority of the time, even I have to admit that you are anything but untrustworthy or disloyal. You know the grave danger this could put me in—more than that, the danger to yourself and your friends, and it could cost us the war, and those facts and your overall character give me the utmost confidence that you will not reveal a word of this to anyone. Plus, one of my Occlumency books went missing shortly before your departure, and with all your positive traits, an aversion to stealing if it suits you or your cause is not one of them."

On that last line, Hermione's obvious guilt crept into her expression along with a blush to her cheeks. Suddenly, Severus heard Potter's familiar voice through the trees as he approached the camp, along with another voice that Severus didn't have time to identify.

"I must go. Repair the shields—I've only undone them in one spot, which you will see me pass through. And remember, Hermione, go forth as if this meeting never transpired. If the situation calls for it, treat me with as much hatred and disdain as you did prior to it. Curse me—kill me if you have to. You must."

She shifted on her feet, looking everywhere but his face. "Promise me, Granger," Snape demanded hurriedly.

"I will." She gulped, and he turned to walk away. "Wait," Hermione whispered. Severus turned mid-stride to look at her one last time, unsure of what she could possibly want or even why he turned around. "Thank you…and be careful, Severus."

"Of course, Hermione. You as well." He nodded and grasped her hands, curling them firmly around the vial of phoenix tears again, before he let go and departed on brisk footing through the snow, through the hole in the shields, and into the darkness that lay beyond. Hermione stood, holding her breath, feeling a strange sort of bereft-ness that she couldn't place, floored by all he had told her, as the mysterious man wound his way back through the Forest of Dean to a suitable apparition point, where he disappeared with a crack that sent birds flying scared into the sky.

Before she slipped back into the tent to feign sleep so Harry would be none-the-wiser, she looked up into the now cloudless sky, awed by the way the stars themselves seemed to sparkle with an icy sheen as if they too were frozen by the cold of this surreal winter night. The white fog of the moon's penumbra emanated from it like a person's warm breath dissipating into the cool night air, an observation that lifted Hermione's spirits and left her feeling less alone in the wilderness and in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I commissioned the cover illustration from ChioInk (check out their wonderful work on Tumblr)*  
> *On FFN, this fic is listed under another name, "Chiaroscuro"*


	2. Cut by Occam's Razor

**II. Cut by Occam's Razor**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

The morning light shined on the snow-whitened trees, revealing their iridescence as they stretched their skeletal limbs against a gray sky painted with wispy clouds. While the boys left the immediate vicinity to forage for food, Hermione remained at camp; she dressed in layers of winter-wear to guard against the cold before she exited the tent to take up her watch. A distinct lack of sleep had effectively bruised her eyes, leaving them aching in her skull and marked by dark circles. Sleep had evaded her with relative ease after both Severus and Ron reappeared in her life within the span of that same tumultuous night. This strange twist of fate also brought the existing dichotomy between the two of them to the forefront of her mind with a newfound clarity. Severus's brave actions had thrown Ron's cowardice into sharp relief, a realization which joined forces with her original anger over Ron's desertion to jointly fuel her explosion upon his return; even Ron's latent display of courage in his destruction of the locket failed to impress her.

Thoughts of Severus consumed her until he became the locus of her singularly-focused mind, and questions burgeoned in her brain as if she had cast the multiplication charm on her own thoughts. This deviation from the Horcrux hunt afforded her brain much-needed respite, although she'd begun to feel like Severus would also play a pivotal role in ending Voldermort's reign of terror, a variable she'd never anticipated and therefore never accounted for. She longed to speak with Severus face-to-face again; her one chance had been so fleeting and so surreal that she wondered if she had dreamt it all. Though, unlike her dreams, she could remember every detail of their conversation, as well as their strange dance of back and forth body-language, facial cues and all.

Severus had unknowingly resurrected the long-dormant part of her that loved occupying the role of "teacher's pet" and basking in the limelight of academia when he chose to reveal the truth of his allegiance to her and her alone. Unraveling the years of his seemingly ever-shifting loyalty in order to isolate the line of consistent behavior in furtherance to their cause proved all-consuming. Whereas she'd formerly been pouring over "The Tales of Beetle the Bard" and the strange symbol transcribed therein, she now cast it aside, leaving it neglected and unopened on her bunk, replaced in her lap by a new book—a journal.

She peered furtively over her shoulder. Although, she was writing in invisible ink between the lines of already inked entries, she feared this new obsession would draw the unwanted scrutiny of her friends. After she finished penning her last thought, she cast a revealing charm to look over all she had written. Dates and events and people and places formed a dizzying map of what she knew of Severus's life, but it all amounted to very little in the end—unsurprisingly, she would have to think in theoretical terms to pinpoint the crux of her research, his motivations.

Working tirelessly to identifying potential Horcruxes left her wary of thinking in the abstract, but as she studied her writings, the memories of her first year at Hogwarts drifted to mind. She had been enthralled by Snape's first lecture, and she considered pleasing and eventually impressing him a challenge with a prize to be won—that is, his rare to the point of being nearly non-existent compliments and admiration. When he first denied her, she sought to try even harder, incensed by his unfair treatment of her.

Originally, Hermione had seen past his billowing black robes and his unkempt appearance—she'd concluded, in spite of the claims of others, that although he looked the part of the villain, that wasn't the part he playing, nor was he really playing the hero. The truth fell somewhere in the middle. Conversely, her friends judged quickly on appearances, cementing those first impressions in their minds inexorably—Harry had inherited an old prejudice, just as Lupin had said. Regardless, she had quickly tired of taking up the position of devil's advocate, so she humored them to the point that their opinions seemed to sway her towards their side—to the belief that Snape was a dark and dangerous wizard.

Although her views had shifted to align with those harbored by her friends, Hermione felt somewhat vindicated when, in the years that followed, Snape validated her original assertion again and again—but she hated to be proven wrong even after being initially correct. Why had he so consistently been their savior? The malice he displayed towards Harry never lessened in intensity in the aftermath of those incidences. Until the murder of the headmaster, Hermione mostly refused to listen to them endlessly spout rumors or to entertain their usually baseless finger-pointing where Severus was concerned.

Typically, when Hermione set her mind to something, she hardly ever let up until she had accomplished said goal, but in the case of striving to impress Severus Snape, she had trouble staying the course—it seemed that, as a teacher, he had no "pets" only a few Slytherin students whom he seemed mildly fond of (or at least disliked a little less than the rest of them), but sometimes Hermione wondered if he only praised them to get to Harry, who was so easily riled up by such favoritism. Maybe Severus and Harry needed each other, like a pair of foil characters, both of whom only felt confident in themselves when staring at their negative, but that seemed equally unlikely to Hermione.

Severus belonged to Slytherin, so she suspected that the bravery she perceived and nobility she ascribed to him were secondary or even inconsequential to his end; his motives, deep-down, must be self-serving, she thought. But what desire could hold such powerful allure, keeping him steadfastly dedicated to the Order in spite of the endless obstacles they had thrown up to thwart him and near-constant resistance?

Hermione thought about comparison and its usefulness in such cases. She thought about the things she desired or loved the most—she had desired Ron, but now she felt unsure, with her mind refusing to dwell on the subject. The things she loved the most were easy to name, because she so often reminded herself of them to keep her going, to keep her resolutely fighting in the war—her friends, her family, Crookshanks, books, and learning. She knew Severus likewise valued the latter two, but to her knowledge, although he had remained friendly (or as friendly as Severus could be, anyway) with his coworkers until Dumbledore's murder, none could be counted among his friends.

Harry had told her in confidence about his brief intrusion into Snape's memory, so she surmised that the cowering little boy had grown into a man with little regard for the family that disregarded him so fully and so easily. Only one thing remained—romantic love, but Severus never spoke of a lover or a spouse—although he rarely spoke of his private life—nor did the other members of the faculty; even the students never speculated. They all just assumed that he loved nothing and no one, but Hermione knew better.

A faint image of his patronus leapt through her head as a theory whispered across her mind, but at first she ignored and dismissed it. Then, she remembered how Tonk's patronus had changed into a wolf when she fell in love with Lupin, and her internal narration grew louder, more insistent. What if Severus loved Lily—then it all makes sense? The story of Snape's worst memory catapulted to the forefront of her mind, and it all seemed so simple now, so that she couldn't believe she hadn't deduced it already—Occam's Razor even seemed to suggest it. The realization floored her, so much so that she could barely think of anything else, and as snippets of Snape's peculiar behavior over the years presented themselves to her in a flurry of thoughts, she began to sob uncontrollably.

Thankfully, Ron and Harry had not yet returned, so she allowed herself to cry with the torrent of emotion overwhelming her—although she doubted she could dam her tears even if she tried in her inconsolable state. Some details were still fuzzy, incomplete, or unexplained, but even the abstract picture it all created left her reeling with sadness. If Severus had truly overheard the prophesy that night in the tavern and delivered it to the Dark Lord, he had essentially signed the death warrant of his beloved without realizing it. She imagined that Snape had issued a last minute retraction that went unheeded and turned back to the Order in desperation, but in spite of his remorse, Lily had been killed, along with her husband.

She imagined Severus's heart leaping for just one beat at learning of the death of his nemesis before being overcome with guilt again, punishing himself harsher for even having the thought. She imagined her unsatisfying relationship with Ron ending in a row, and she wondered if her memories and the love they contained could keep her going for nearly two decades, and she saw herself rationalizing that correlation does not equal causation, and while Severus played a role in Lily's death, Voldermort cast the fatal curse, the death blow—so, in similar circumstances, she thought she might attempt to rationalize her own guilt away.

Hermione's tears dripped on the pages of her book with a pitter-patter like rain, soaking and wrinkling the pages. Although Snape had been a wholly convincing spy, she doubted that his vehement dislike of Harry could be faked for so long—when he spat insults he spat venom, too. The previous night in the forest had changed Hermione, leading her to look at Severus differently. Tonight, however, her previous thoughts disappeared as if they never existed at all, replaced with an incomplete picture of a complex man whom she empathized with and admired; this led her to think over the other qualities she'd always admired about him but only begrudgingly acknowledged at the time—his logic (a rarity in the wizarding world), his intelligence and intellect, his immense ability, even at times, his ruthlessness—like the kind she had exercised in her revenge on Rita Skeeter. She resolved to find a way to speak with him again, determined to receive definitive answers to the questions that continued to belabor her the whole day long.

 

* * *

 

As he climbed the series of shifting staircases that would lead him to Dumbledore’s lofty former perch, the strange stirrings he’d experienced in the forest returned, with a globular energy gathering in his core, pulsing at regular intervals; the first made his stomach clench against the nerves firing within, which contributed to him feeling out-of-sorts, then that warm weighty sensation settled in his lower belly again with twinges of feeling, flutters of that sensation he still couldn’t place.

For a moment, he wondered if he’d overworked and overextended himself to the point of illness, but he didn’t feel nauseous, although suffering the mental lag made him consider whether he had a fever, but his forehead felt cool to the touch. Puzzling indeed, he acknowledged as he reached the stone eagle, where he hesitated—the last person he wished to speak to at that time of night was Albus Dumbledore, knowing the headmaster would be waiting on tenterhooks to grill him over the details of his forest journey, details Severus hadn’t fully processed himself let alone wished to divulge.

Now, he felt a little ill, the unpalatable prospect of a lengthy interrogation enough to turn his stomach. Indecision left him staring at the eagle, summoning the courage to just get it over with, although his own self-interests bade him to proceed with caution and refuse to honor Dumbledore’s request until he allowed himself a hot meal and a few hours tossing and turning in the comfort of his bed, a compromise he hoped the headmaster would be amenable to. As he took a deep breath, something caught his attention—that feeling that had crept into his abdomen had him rocking on his heels to its perplexing rhythm, a move that seemed out of character for him, but he put it out of his mind and stepped under the eagle’s wing before it made its circling ascent. He stopped at the last barrier, the last protection he had against Albus’s infernal line of questioning, his persistence to the point of obnoxiousness and authoritative bullying.

It pained him to push the heavy oak door aside and reveal himself, but he commanded his brain to put one foot after the other. He cast a glance at the portraits scaling high above him, so still and quiet they could pass for ordinary paintings. Silently invoking the mercy of the universe, he hoped Dumbledore had likewise fallen asleep, but he knew better, he conceded with an eye-roll. As he approached his desk, his stomach sank in defeat when he saw Albus behaving as predicted, pacing and furiously polishing his already spotless spectacles.

“Severus!” He gathered himself and flew to the foreground of his portrait, waiting on baited breath for Severus to return with good news. When Severus silently began removing his cloak and gloves, Albus looked as if he would burst if he didn’t soon say something. “So?” he guided him into joining the conversation, and Severus relented, realizing Dumbledore would likely resort to shouting through his bedroom door the whole night through until Severus gave him the answers he demanded.

With another weary sigh, he slowly turned toward the portrait above his desk, giving him his undivided attention, as he would settle for nothing less. “Albus, listen to me, I will answer your questions,” but he added a caveat, “A reasonable number of questions. And I will give you my personal debriefing, only because it contains the word, “brief,” as brevity is something I require if I am going to partake in this tonight, when it could reasonably wait until morning.”

Albus seemed to draw some comfort from his prelude, since he delivered it in his usual way, in a careful tone with plenty of snark, which revealed that nothing of importance had occurred, nothing had gone awry, without him even having to communicate it, which seemed to calm his nerves significantly, as he sighed in relief, “So nothing went wrong, I take it?”

“Nothing of any interest to you,” he replied, with a twitched of a smirk, remembering his encounter with Hermione, the initial volatility she displayed to him before she heard him out.

His elusive tone intrigued Albus, “Shouldn’t I have the ability to decide what is of interest to me and what is not?” he posed, and Severus suddenly felt like he’d stepped back a year, where he was being reprimanded, slumped in the chair across from his boss, pleading his case.

Severus sat atop the desk and attempted to divert the conversation, “Delivering the sword to the boy proved quite easy, just as we had planned. The journey was a definitive success, as now Potter possesses the sword, the legitimate relic, for whatever mysterious purposes you believe it will be of use to him. I’m still a bit unclear on the details, and you seem to think, in my case, those reasons must remain murky.”

“Thank Merlin,” he breathed, “I can tell you’re a tad displeased that there are aspects of this mission I’ve refrained from divulging to anyone, including you, even though you played a vital part in it, but I want you to know you’ve done your part masterfully, the sword is invaluable to Potter’s survival and crucial to the Dark Lord’s downfall, a move you’ve helped orchestrate. Perhaps, content yourself on that knowledge and praise for now. In time, my reasons for remaining mum will make sense to you, and I think you’ll understand my modus operandi.”

“Thank you,” Severus begrudgingly accepted and thanked him for his praise, although his nagging curiosity kept pestering him for answers, and his indignance over being excluded prickled at his every elusive word.

“What about Miss Granger?” he inquired, with an expression of amusement and cat-ate-the-canary eyes.

“As always, dealing with Miss Granger proved a bit more challenging and did not initially proceed as planned,” Severus cleared his throat, searching for the right words to relay his encounter to the headmaster.

Dumbledore gave a hearty chuckle, “She’s a bit of a spitfire, that Miss Granger. She kept you on your toes, I’m sure,” he observed.

Severus put his arm behind his neck and paused for a moment, “That, sir, is an understatement. For a moment, I thought perhaps you’d knowingly sent me into the Lion’s den,” he admitted with a rare laugh of his own.

“I trusted that you could enter, earn their trust, and make it out alive and unscathed, to your credit.”

“For a moment, I think we both wondered if the other was the prey or the predator,” Severus recalled, “I approached her and made my presence known before dropping my wand in attempt to show her I meant no harm, a gesture she considered for only a moment before she lunged at me in attack. I managed to subdue her and keep her contained until she listened to what I had to say, which I…I admittedly crossed a line, and apologized, and we were finally able to have a proper conversation, where I delivered her the phoenix tears; they are now in her possession, and she promised to keep my journey a secret from Potter, so, while it began a little rocky, I’d also call our meeting a success. I believe she will keep her word.”

Albus grinned, “Miss Granger is loyal to a fault. If she gave you her word, she will abide by it. I’m impressed, Severus, that you were resourceful enough to successfully earn her trust and appeal to her reasoning skills, as well as successfully ensuring that vial ended up in her hands.”

Severus nodded, the mention of her hands reminding him of the moment he’d placed the vial in her hands, how he closed his hands over hers, the warmth of her skin, the sensation touching her evoked, a pang of warmth in his chest, the smallest jolt of electricity, so small he wondered if he’d imagined it or caught static, so when a second opportunity arrived, his desire to validate his earlier experience, to feel the flutter of elation as his hands made contact with hers, and this time, when his hands closed over hers more firmly than the first time, the jolt sparked instantaneously, a burst of giddy euphoria that glowed in the air around them until Potter’s approach forced him to let go and disappear into the night, out of her life as quickly as he’d re-entered it, a dull world where he’d never experienced such a splendid and elusive thing in the presence of any other woman. “Is it alright if we have a more in-depth conversation in the morning?” He asked, hoping Dumbledore’s praise for him meant he’d be more willing to honor his request.

“Of course, Severus, off to bed with you. I imagine you’re a bit peckish, I’ll journey down to the kitchens and have them deliver your evening meal to your quarters.”

A bit taken aback by Dumbledore’s fatherly turn, he thanked him for his spell of kindness nonetheless, the sound of a meal being brought to him did sound inviting, anyway. Severus ate his supper and changed into his nightclothes, before lying down in bed, his arms behind his head as he stared at the cloth hanging down the middle of the four-poster bed; although the bed was not to his taste, and a little flamboyant, he couldn’t summon the will or effort to have another brought up to replace it.

For a moment, he’d thought he’d found the culprit, hunger pangs, but even after he’d eaten his fill, that dull, persistent ache settled in his abdomen, the ever-present ache that made it difficult to focus on anything that required a modicum of contemplation. After a turn, his sporadic thoughts returned to the action of the day, his trek through the forest, but mostly centered on his encounter with Hermione. The way she’d taken the time to actually listen to his explanation, the way she’d re-assessed her earlier opinions and came to his side after a bit of intelligent discourse, a rare display of rationality and reason in action.

Perhaps, he’d underestimated her, not her ability, because he always begrudgingly admitted to himself that her talent was undeniable and showed brilliant promise, but he wondered if he should re-examine her character—before he’d considered her a know-it-all with a bit of a flippant streak when challenged, an aptitude for potions that had already mastered the essentials, afraid to venture into new territory, her ingenuity stifled by her fear of failure, brilliance thwarted by pride. The history of their classroom interactions revealed a long-held disdain on his part, the origins of which even he couldn’t place. When he honestly re-evaluated those instances between them, he saw an angry, embittered man eager to cut her down at the vaguest opportunity, even before she’d given him a reason too.

That first day, when he burst through the door reciting the same show-stopping lecture he gave every year, he took special care to act it out for Potter, his malice towards the boy and his father desperate to make an appearance. He’d worked himself up before he even crossed the threshold to the classroom, and he’d entered a man on a mission, to humiliate Potter and relish in the attempt. The idea of anyone in that classroom taking an actual interest in his prepared speech was a hope he’d abandoned long ago, so he’d willfully missed the way Hermione teetered on the edge of her chair, eyes wide with academic excitement, hanging on his every word, furiously transcribing it verbatim for later admiration.

The respect and esteem he’d always hoped to inspire in the classroom faded when he’d realized the futile reality of education from the teaching side, but Hermione venerated him the moment he walked through that door, having acquainted herself with the impressive curriculum vitae so obscure he thoroughly wondered how she even got her hands on it to memorize it. His accomplishments had earned her respect outright, and she held him in the highest esteem, exhilarated and jumping at the chance to learn from him, but because of her association with Potter, he lumped her right into the festering mess of hatred and disdain evoked at the sight of the product of Lily’s and James’ desire strutting into the great hall. Sadly, he’d mistaken her earnestness as a bid for favorable treatment, something he despised and eschewed at all costs, but when he learned her merit, she’d bested him again, and the scope of her prodigious talent surpassed that of any of her peers or predecessors at Hogwart’s.

In his observations, he studied her, the way she so confidently raised her hand and made assertions, the way she touted her knowledge hinted at a budding ego, which made him feel dismissively toward her, but even his keen eyes failed to see the fledgling underneath, hiding her self-consciousness of her looks beneath her vast and impressive span of knowledge. While she watched other girls parlay their beauty into special treatment and advancement, she rested on her laurels, rising above the rest on sheer will and merit. With chagrin, he reviewed a memory he hadn’t thought of in years, when she came to him for help after Malfoy had cast an engorgement charm on her teeth and his cuttingly cruel response that sent her crying to the hospital wing begging for a minimizing charm to fix her prominent teeth.

Looking back, her hysterical response slayed him and made him feel like a poor excuse for a man, but at the time, the mark had begun to burn and darken, and the magnitude of his betrayal grew abundantly clear, with consequences steadily closing in, but with no knowledge of the moment his master would return to hunt him down to the ends of the earth and go forth with an execution long in the waiting; the day she’d come to him for help, he hadn’t slept in days, Dumbledore hounded him constantly to ensure he wouldn’t stray, with Igor constantly haranguing him with the same questions Severus struggled to answer himself. Potter’s recklessness ensured that protecting him required a level of difficulty and duty that Severus didn’t’ feel he could maintain as his world spiraled out of control. Hermione knew nothing of his degrading mental state, his downward spiral and pervasive fear, so when he unleashed the full force of his raging venomous tongue at her expense, she assumed the hatred was organic, spurred by her, deserved in some way.

Yes, when he made a non-biased assessment of Hermione Granger, he saw a prodigiously talented girl forced to grow up before her time, a girl who hid behind her brilliance, so no one could see through to the self-conscious fledgling within, who would rather look into a book than into a mirror, so she wouldn’t have to confront the reality she perceived. He saw a girl who fiercely protected those she cared about, who protected those more vulnerable or susceptible to bullying than her, she was the girl we encourage our daughters to be. She was the co-conspirator who managed to evade the most powerful wizard alive for several months, a feat to almost her sole credit. When he framed it like that, he realized that he’d been patently unfair to Hermione Granger, and he felt the strong urge to offer her an apology, an urge seldom felt or entertained.

Without the implications of Harry Potter arriving at Hogwart’s that fateful day, he could see how their relationship could have progressed quite differently, with him taking her under his wing to show her the full extent of her capabilities. And he strangely mourned the loss, for reasons he couldn’t articulate. On the whole, he found her quite captivating, a curiosity out of reach, a force of nature with an old soul and an understanding that far surpassed her tender years.

In his mind’s eye, he focused on her face the moment she first confidently said his name, her eyes bright and beaming with questions, brown eyes sparking in the firelight, the cold rendering porcelain skin nearly free of color, the way she slipped her bottom lip between her teeth when she considered his reply, and the moment she tucked her chin and regarded him with skepticism as she peered up through her lashes, a look that affected him in a strange way, a feeling of tenderness left unexpressed, a look that made his pulse race and committed itself to memory for further reflection. Processing these feelings he’d experienced over the course of their encounter left him more confused and troubled in the end, hitting a wall where trying to make sense of anything only made things less clear, so he rolled onto his side and tried to sleep, ignoring the ache in his stomach that only sleep could fully mute, and only temporarily.


	3. Sub Rosa

**III. Sub Rosa**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

The fire crackled, sending tiny embers sparking from the flames to drift up and away to ultimately land in the snow, which extinguished each one on contact with an inaudible hiss. Hermione stared into the fire's hypnotizing glow with her runic textbook open in her lap; she remembered reading that one could induce a lucid dream by imagining the desired subject taking form in a fire, and she had to stop herself from morphing the flames into Severus's image in her mind—a realization that troubled her, but she buried it for the moment.

She listened intently until she heard the snores that confirmed the boys had fallen asleep. She closed her textbook and set it aside, and after casting the muffling charm on herself and her intended guest, she reached into her beaded bag and withdrew the companion portrait of Phineas Black she'd taken from Grimmauld Place.

"Professor Black? Professor Black, I need to speak with you please. I won't blindfold you this time, I promise," she beckoned to him.

Phineas's figure walked cautiously towards the glass of the frame with his hands outstretched in case she changed her mind, "What good is a mudblood's promise?" He scoffed.

Normally, such a remark would have wounded Hermione and incensed her into starting an argument, but now she needed him, so she let it pass unacknowledged, "I need you to put aside your disgust at my blood status for now, please. I need your help."

Phineas leaned back, surprised by her unfaltering manners in the face of his insult, although he remained angry and incredulous toward her request, "You dare ask for my help, Granger? After repeatedly disrespecting me and my position?" shrilled Phineas nastily, but the fact that she had not blindfolded him kept him from retreating.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I can't elaborate, suffice it to say I understand more now than I did the last time we spoke," Hermione explained. Both her apology and her elusiveness visibly intrigued him. "Would it be possible to deliver some information to Severus?" Hermione braved.

"You forget yourself—address the headmaster with respect!" Phineas demanded, puffing out his chest in a show of bravado.

"I did not mean any disrespect by calling him by his name, Professor Black. I've been asked to address him as such," she countered, rolling her eyes.

Phineas laughed dryly at her assertion, "On whose authority?"

"The headmaster himself," snapped Hermione.

Phineas regarded her curiously, and he challenged her, "Surely, you jest?"

"No, in fact, I don't!" Hermione shot back, and she quickly attempted to steer the conversation in a more productive direction by stating, "You told Severus about our whereabouts." Phineas tensed and appeared to brace himself for her wrath, brought on by him revealing their whereabouts to Severus without permission. Noticing this, Hermione shook her head and assured him, "No, Professor, I want to thank you. Severus's help has proven invaluable to us."

Puzzled, Phineas narrowed his eyes and analyzed her words for hidden sarcasm or cheek until he finally seemed satisfied, although a bit bewildered, "You're welcome. The headmaster could have helped you much sooner if you'd just—"

"That's neither here nor there, sir." Hermione interjected. "The time-turners were all destroyed, if you recall," she quipped; she couldn't help but be a little flippant with him. Phineas snorted, making his displeasure known. "Are you versed in ancient runes, professor?" She asked.

"Yes, of course," he scoffed in response, as if it was a question she needn't ask to a man as knowledgeable as he perceived himself to be. "Why?" He added. She sighed, happy he didn't launch into a diatribe about respecting one's elders without question.

"Can you tell Severus to invert the Elder Futhark alphabet?" She asked tentatively.

"I do not understand. Why do you wish me to relay this to the headmaster, who is very busy I might add?" Phineas prodded, arms crossed.

"He will understand the purpose of the information in time, sir. I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you more than that," Hermione explained, only half-apologetically.

"You do not deem me worthy of your full disclosure, yet you require my assistance? Hah! You continue to find new ways to disrespect me, girl," Phineas remarked with derision.

Hermione threw her hands up, "It's not anything to do with disrespect, sir. It's simply a matter of safety—for me and for Severus."

In turn, Phineas offered his own bullheaded proposal, "I require some information before I proceed,"

Hermione sighed, attempting to remain calm and reasonable no matter how exasperated she felt. "What information, Professor Black?" she seethed, feigning patience to the point that it seemed exaggerated.

"I require the details of your itinerary, so I may tell the headmaster; it will be well-received, and maybe he will sleep soundly for a night instead of pacing around the office, keeping me awake," Phineas grumbled crankily.

Hermione immediately made as if to interrupt with a resounding "no"—until Phineas mentioned that Severus would be pleased to hear it, so she let him finish and sighed, "We're heading to Ottery St. Catchpole in the morning. We've yet to determine anything further," she explained; this information, although rather scant, seemed to please him.

"Alright then. Was that so difficult?" Phineas gloated. Hermione glowered at him—in all his professed admiration of Severus, she still didn't trust Phineas implicitly.

"Professor, tell me again what I asked you to relay to Severus," Hermione requested.

Phineas rolled his eyes but obliged her, "The Granger girl asked me to relay the following: Invert the Elder Futhark alphabet. She assures me the purpose of this mysterious instruction will soon become apparent to you. It was a matter on which she spoke no further," Phineas rehearsed, and Hermione smiled, pleased at his rare show of decorum.

"Brilliant" she praised, clapping her hands together, before she added, "One revision, however. Begin by addressing me by my name, my given name, please."

Phineas groaned, "Why will your surname not suffice? I fail to see what difference it makes…"

"If it makes no difference, then what's the trouble?" Hermione quipped with an impish grin, "Besides, that is how Severus addresses me."

Prickling, Phineas glared at her, tapping his fingers angrily on his crossed arms, "The headmaster would never address a student as if she were equal to himself and his position."

"I'm no longer a student, and if he deems it appropriate to call me by my given name, I fail to understand why it is of any import or consequence to you?" Hermione replied.

Phineas seemed to acquiesce, since he argued no further; he merely added a caveat, "If you're crossing me girl and your request angers the headmaster, do not expect or request my help again."

"Understood," Hermione gave a curt nod in response. Then, Phineas walked into the background of his portrait as if back through a tunnel, shrinking in size until she could no longer see him at all. All in all, their interaction had gone better than she had expected, and she sighed with relief before lifting the muffling charm and taking up her watch once more.

The moment Severus became the de facto headmaster, he disposed of Albus's spindle-legged tables; their whimsical designs mocked him with memories of the halcyon days under Albus's leadership. Next, he rid of his esoteric collection of silver instruments, placing them in storage. The constant whir and hum of the instruments had encroached upon his every thought like the titular telltale heart, leaving him consumed with the memory of the night he brought Albus's life to a tragic close. Dumbledore's portrait hung on the wall behind the great oak desk, and Severus conversed with him often without issue—the vestige of Albus in portrait form failed to evoke the raw remorse that his memories did.

The assortment of curios Dumbledore had amassed over his lengthy life was also placed into storage, save for a handful of banal or useful items; he approached that decision more pragmatically than emotionally—with the popularity of Albus's unauthorized biography, collectors now coveted the items in question, so he removed them to prevent any potential thieves from absconding with them. Severus left the office in a spartan state, mostly bare and with no trace of himself, but in spite of his efforts to scrub the place free of Albus's aesthetic, his touch was everywhere. Severus lived out of his luggage trunks, which sat in the corner of his personal quarters, still packed.

The ever-present memory of Albus's murder only contributed to the pervasive sense of unease the office held for him. Its vaulted ceilings, common to gothic cathedrals, echoed an air of religiosity that disquieted him and evoked feelings of being judged and condemned. The setting ensured he couldn't escape the guilt that haunted him, instead confronting him with it daily. The great ribbed arches felt like a giant creature had swallowed him up, and the view from floor-to-ceiling diamond-paned window gave him vertigo. Only the bookshelves that scaled the walls adjacent to his desk proved comforting to him, resembling the ones he'd built into the walls of his home on Spinner's End.

Even the gilded memory cabinet resembled a cathedral in miniature, with each of its glass-fronted shelves delineated by arched windows, replete with delicate tracery, and ultimately topped with elegant openwork spires. The cabinet once contained a pastel rainbow of etched glass vials all meticulously labeled by Albus himself, but Severus had taken to using it to store flasks and vials and tinctures of completed potions.

A draught of dreamless sleep caught the light alluringly—the firelight gave the illusion that the purple-colored liquid shifted in tone in the round flask, which was sealed by a stopper in the form of a silver fleur-de-lis. Severus eyed the potion, taking a few hopeful steps towards it before deciding against using it that night; although he yearned to steep his tired brain in nothingness, the potion significantly dulled his reactivity and his sense of alertness, and he couldn't afford the potential repercussions that could result from the loss of those precious seconds he'd need to spend getting his bearings.

Portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses hung crowded on the gallery wall, and nearly all of their subjects had fallen asleep. Severus found it equal parts unfortunate and amusing that the portraits achieved more hours of restful sleep per night than he usually did per week. Insomnia plagued him again tonight, and by the light of the oil lamp chandelier and a few candles, Severus paced the room just as Phineas had said was his habit. He climbed the stairs to peer through Dumbledore's telescope, pacing the length of the loft a few times, before descending the stairs to traipse a well-worn path around the headmaster's desk.

He ran his fingers against the grain of his desk as he passed it, and he turned to look at Dumbledore's portrait. The former headmaster lay slumped in his chair, his half-moon spectacles drifting down his noise; the tip of his pointed hat curled forward as he slept with his chin on his chest, looking like disheveled Merlin. In Severus's restless state, belabored by insomnia-induced stress and paranoia, he longed to talk to someone, and he felt a momentary pang of self-pity when he realized all his closest confidantes were portraits, not living persons.

Periodically, Severus trained his eyes on the golden frame containing Phineas Nigellus's empty portrait; the canvas had been reduced to its dark umber background and the lighter portion which usually exuded from its subject seated at the center. Phineas's absence had contributed to keeping sleep at bay for Severus, and his curiosity over what the embittered former headmaster could be doing in the company of Potter and Hermione left him so nerve-wracked with anticipation that he felt like jumping out of his skin.

Finally, while Severus stood visually tracing the outline of the strip of quatrefoils carved into the stone above Albus's portrait, he heard Phineas shuffling footsteps as he staggered into view. The former headmaster favored the Greek philosophers, with his gray beard and his eyes which appeared wise—an observation quickly refuted when he opened his mouth—with the addition of a turban piled high upon his head. Phineas appeared out of breath as his figure grew in size until he reached the foreground of his portrait, where he slumped into his chair. "Headmaster," he wheezed.

Phineas's beleaguered state piqued Severus's interest and added to his anxiety, "Yes, Phineas?" With difficulty, Severus strove to appear nonplussed.

"I know where they are headed!" Phineas proclaimed triumphantly. Severus shot towards the gallery wall, "Keep quiet! The Carrow's could be lurking on the stair, as they are wont to do. Keep your voice down!" Phineas recoiled at Snape's sudden appearance so close to his frame, and his pride looked a tad wounded; he seemed to be rendered silent by what he perceived as Severus's ungratefulness. "Phineas," Severus softened his tone, "Please continue? I laud your effort in obtaining this information for me, but it must remain a secret—it is of utmost importance that it never leaves this room."

Phineas shook of the brusqueness of Snape's reaction and continued. After revealing their next destination to Severus in little more than a whisper, he cleared his throat.

Severus had begun pacing again, "Yes, Phineas? Was there something else?" He asked with an air of tired disinterest as he absorbed the information regarding their next destination—knowing for certain had assuaged his worries significantly and lulled him towards sleep.

"Yes," Phineas paused for an agonizingly long time, while he struggled over whether to comply with Hermione's request, for he loathed to say her name himself, but something about what she'd said rang sincere with him. Severus shot him a pointed look that spoke for itself _—"get on with it!"_

"Hermione," Phineas said finally, wrinkling his nose. Severus perked up and looked Phineas in the eye now; he held his rapt attention with the mention of her name. "You do not object?" asked Phineas, who seemed deflated.

"Object?" Severus eyed him inscrutably, masking his inner confusion. Phineas slouched his shoulders, and Severus grew impatient. "What have you said that I could possibly object to?" Severus asked, perplexed.

Phineas regarded him with an indignant look that suffused him with shame, "Headmaster," the way he said the formality made it sound like a dirty word, "You do not object to the mudblood student using your first name, sans title, nor do you object to her request for you and I to use hers—insulting the nobility of the title you hold and the one I once held by insolently addressing you as her equal?"

Severus's eyes narrowed as he grappled sleepily with understanding and his patience. "Phineas," he said incredulously, "I've asked you repeatedly to refrain from using that word," he whispered, kneading his brow.

"Besides, she is no more a child than I. I asked that she call me by my name—professor felt uncomfortable for me under the circumstances of our meeting, and she wouldn't have deigned to call me headmaster even under threat. The so-called nobility of my title is of no importance to me, as I rather detest the position that has been foisted upon me," Severus spat, without pausing for Phineas's rebuttal.

"One must command respect in order to receive it in turn, and in Hermione's case, the man she knew me to be deserved not one iota of it, so I do not fault her for refusing to bend to the social confines of title and nobility. She is of age and a formidable witch who has lived through enough to constitute my own lifespan, so no, Phineas, I do not object to her calling me by my name—it's surely an improvement over what she called me before—and I do not object to addressing her in the manner she requested regardless of whether it betrays my station," Severus continued, riled by Phineas's words.

"I realize that the supposedly tainted blood that runs through her veins inherently means that, to you, she is less than…less than you or I and other pure-bloods and half-bloods, that she should gladly conform to the narrow confines we've placed on her lowly position on the magical hierarchy and be grateful for the privilege, as if we are her gods, as if it is our right—that we command respect solely on the basis of title and blood-status and influence; that is the lie we tell ourselves so that we can assert ourselves and stay above reproach, above criticism—so we can lay the blame at the feet of those who disrespect us so that we never have to look inward and examine ourselves to find why we deserve respect in the first place," Severus spoke swiftly and breathlessly.

"So, no, I do not object; in fact, I'm more in agreement with Hermione than I appear to be with you and your pristine blood and meaningless titles and lofty positions." Severus had been pacing rapidly as he raved at and effectively gutted Phineas, who appeared stunned at Severus's outburst. "Well?" Severus barked, causing him to startle, "What was that other information you had for me, now that we've handled the little matter of the name?"

"I'm not repeating her name, no matter how cozy you are with her and her convictions," Phineas huffed. Severus gestured his hand to urge him to continue. "The girl came to me with a request to pass along an instruction to you."

"Instructions?" Severus whispered to himself, looking confused and frazzled.

"No, instruction, singular," clarified Phineas before continuing, "I remember you scored at N.E.W.T. level in ancient runes."

"Is that relevant?" Severus asked impatiently.

"I assume so, although she refused to be transparent with me in regards to her purpose, but it concerns what she said to me—her instruction: Invert the Elder Futhark alphabet, for a reason which will soon be clear to you, apparently." Phineas saw Severus's look of utter confusion and exasperation and shrugged in mock apology, "I asked her for more information, for further instruction, for some context or anything of the sort to help elucidate the matter, but, as you said as you sang her many praises, the girl is stubborn and refused to provide me with anything other than that single, maddening instruction, headmaster."

"She may as well have asked how a raven is like a writing desk…" Severus mumbled, gripping the back of his chair as he hung his head in frustration.

"Perhaps, it's a ruse meant to beguile you, headmaster," suggested Phineas hopefully.

Severus shook his head, "No," he said softly, remembering the night in the forest—nothing suggested any hint of doubt within her when they parted. "She would not resort to that."

"Severus, I've often heard you spout your feelings on human behavior, how one can intuit but never truly know another's full mind," Phineas threw his words back at him.

"Yes and my views have not changed on the whole, but she looked at me with such conviction, as if she knew my words were true as I spoke them—that look in her eyes gives me pause... It lingers so strongly in my mind so that it almost lives and has a voice that's telling me she would not deceive me. Creating a ruse or diversion would be out-of-character for her…" Severus began thinking out loud.

Phineas regarded Severus strangely, his eyes following his form as he continued to pace, "Headmaster, however much I respect your need to go on waxing poetic, I must reiterate that the girl is playing a game with you. Women can be beguiling creatures, Severus, and they will tell you one thing to be true while harboring the opposite view—and they do so, _convincingly_ ," Phineas sneered, seemingly remembering a similar instance in his own past.

"Are you suggesting that she's using her feminine wiles and looks to deceive me?" Severus asked in bristling monotone.

"That's exactly it," Phineas nodded as he spoke.

"You think that I would fall prey to such tired tricks as those? I've known her since she was eleven years old, Phineas, and so I have a lengthy span of her history to compare her current actions to—it's not as if she could fool me for so long and maintain the original ruse," Severus argued.

Phineas paused as he looked Severus up and down, waiting for him to realize the irony of his own statement. Severus quirked an eyebrow at him, and Phineas sighed and gave voice to his thoughts, "You've been playing a role nearly as long as she's been alive, headmaster, and you've played it well, impeccably even—you've yet to be found out." He reminded him gently.

Severus gestured wildly, as if he could flail away the thought. "Albus trusted her, Phineas, implicitly, as he claimed to trust me. She could've already sent this entire thing crashing down with laughable ease, yet she remains steadfast in her secrecy. In the woods that night, she actually heard what I had to say instead of just dismissing me on principal, which she'd have been right to do. I cannot now begrudge her my trust in return." Severus said quietly.

Phineas scoffed, "Headmaster, don't get sentimental on me now when the end of the war is nigh. Don't let the admittedly pretty little mudblood get inside your head and threaten all you've worked for."

Severus whirled around, "What did you just say to me?" He wished Phineas were alive so he could strangle him. He dug his long nails into his own palms until he drew blood to assuage the urge to break someone or something. "This has nothing to do with such vile things as you are suggesting, Phineas. Her beauty…or lack thereof… is inconsequential to me—I'm speaking of her mind and her disposition." Severus's cheeks grew flushed as he spoke, unconsciously thinking about the things Phineas had seemed to imply and suggest.

"Yet you rage at the mere suggestion impropriety," Phineas laughed haughtily. "Even upped the ante with 'beauty,' didn't you?" he chided softly. Severus fought the urge to set his portrait on fire, but he needed Phineas, who provided him with his only link to Potter—and to Hermione. "I know you, headmaster, for we are Slytherin. A thing is only inconsequential if we do not desire it or find it useful to us in some capacity. Your defending the girl may not be out of desire, but there's something in it for you, whether you admit it or not doesn't make it any less so, but you do not fool me."

When no retort came to him, he grew determined to ignore him. "The girl did mention her evasiveness and non-specificity had something to do with safety or security," Phineas broke the stony silence, hoping he could enthrall Severus again with a little tidbit of information, however unhelpful.

When Severus neglected to respond, Phineas added, "Not to mention, she seemed to imply the information would only be useful in some context in the near future, headmaster, so perhaps you can sate yourself with the knowledge of their itinerary tonight and go to sleep so that I may follow." Severus glared at him with tired eyes, and he showed no signs of interest in following his instructions.

Phineas snorted as he threw up his hands in defeat, "Perhaps, you could continue to brood stilly? Without your incessant pacing?" Severus gave him a nearly imperceptible nod in return, and Phineas accepted that response, as he was unlikely to receive anything better, so he settled in his frame and went to sleep. Severus sat at his desk, where Phineas's words echoed in his head, leaving him questioning his own motives in a confusing circle of thought that only left him more disconcerted.

Phineas merely misunderstood him—perhaps one unfamiliar with Hermione could view his comments as indicative of something more than an unwavering belief in her loyalty. Phineas seemed to derive his accusations from the things Severus wasn't saying, rather than the things he did say, and when Severus considered that manner of thinking, he realized with a shiver the genius in it. Severus rarely spoke without thinking, although he was quick on his feet when he did so, and when he spoke, he spoke carefully and with purpose—the amount he omitted from his speech proved voluminous by comparison and much more revealing of his true nature, not that of the carefully crafted man he presented to the world.

Severus pictured Hermione's face and he couldn't deny she was lovely—he had noticed it in the Forest of Dean, surprisingly it was when she had attempted to fight him off. Her fury had burned in her eyes in a strangely beautiful way, while her hair seemed to have a life of its own as she flailed at him, her body taut and her fiery attitude combined so that he realized it, leading him to acknowledge that it had always been so, just a subconscious recognition of the fact that she was beautiful. Severus rested his chin on his folded hands as he sat lost in thought—shame followed his acknowledgement of her beauty, for the fact that, although they were on first name terms and she was of age, not so long ago she had been a child under his tutelage.

Severus couldn't handle those thoughts, so he unlocked the memory cabinet to retrieve the silver pensieve, before he set to work, one by one, placing his racing thoughts in the basin until he reached some semblance of peace. Then, he wandered to his bed which he fell into, fully dressed, and quickly went to sleep.


	4. Miles to Go Before I Sleep

**IV. Miles to Go Before I Sleep**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Severus awoke the next morning feeling groggy and irritable, still wearing his clothes from the previous day. The decision to continue wearing them for the remainder of the day felt like an unconscious one, as if he were sleepwalking. The students already made fun of his greasy hair, so he decided to skip a shower and let his appearance be real fodder for their insults. Severus attempted to exit his quarters and pass through his office unnoticed, avoiding Phineas like a person attempting to dodge a regrettable lover from the night before. Phineas laughed as he tried to make his quiet escape, shouting after him cryptically, "Perhaps today is the day that the mudblood's words will make sense."

Severus continued down the stairs without admonishing him for his use of the word he so loathed, the word that, for him, equaled the shot heard round the world. When he had spat it at Lily, it set in motion the catastrophic chain of events leading up to his current predicament.

The Great Hall fell silent as he entered it, unaware he had been apparently running late. The students turned to stare at him as he passed, and he felt the heat of their eyes upon him.

Undeterred, he took his place at the center of the head table; he slumped into his chair, his hand thoughtfully stroking his chin as he stared at the space above the student's heads, looking at nothing in particular. A few frightened students kept glancing upward, hoping to identify the thing that so keenly held their headmaster's interest.

"Nice of you to join us, Severus. Did You-Know-Who keep you up late last night?" Minerva shot him a pointed look as she derided him, appearing quite pleased that he'd unintentionally given her the opportunity.

"Very funny, Minerva. You know as well as I do that I never left the vicinity yesterday—you're not quite so subtle as you think you are. I could be confunded and still identify your animagus without fail. And I'm well aware that you've also been sending your students to track my every move—perhaps you should divvy up the task to more than two of your lackeys, as it's become painfully obvious when Lovegood and Longbottom are tracking me. Lovegood tails me to openly and at too close a pace, and Longbottom's clumsiness more than gives him away. Perhaps these experiences will elucidate the fact that you cannot entrust a student with such a delicate task as subterfuge."

Minerva stared at Severus, blinking slowly, before returning to finishing her plate in tense silence. Severus smiled to himself for the first time in awhile, but his fleeting moment of fun at the expense of Minerva came to a short close when the Carrows began attacking a first-year for crossing them.

After separating the student and the Carrows, Severus returned to his quarters, where he sat silently in his office as the portraits conversed above his head, sometimes speaking of him as if he weren't there at all. A raven landed on the sill of the arched window of his office, lingering far longer than seemed normal—a knowing gleam shone in the bird's black eyes. Severus watched it curiously for a moment, and he realized the bird had a scroll of parchment tied to its leg with a red string. Severus strode to the window, threw it open, and untied the string from the bird's leg, taking the parchment. Perplexed, he watched the bird depart until it flew so far it was reduced to a small dot upon the horizon.

Severus glanced up at the portraits; none of their subjects seemed to notice the unusual letter carrier, so he tucked the scroll in his robes and retreated to his private bedroom without a word, where he sat at his personal writing desk and unfurled the mysterious letter…which was blank. He stared at it for a time as if the words would begin to appear of their own volition if he only looked at it long enough; he shook himself and withdrew his wand. Tapping the letter while performing a silent revealing charm, he watch as the invisible ink started to appear, forming on the page as if by an invisible typewriter. The text appeared tiny and crammed on the page, and Severus had to search his desk for a magnifying eyeglass to decipher it.

As he attempted to read the first line, he realized immediately that the letters were those of the runic alphabet. The instruction relayed to him by Phineas on Hermione's behalf suddenly made sense, and he kicked himself for not realizing earlier that the information she provided him with was a cipher for this letter, her letter, to prevent anyone who may intercept it from reading or understanding it. After momentarily marveling at her brilliance in coming up with such a safeguard, he set to work deciphering the text, careful to do so randomly so he could read the letter in full the first time.

Hours later, Severus finished filling in the last letter corresponding with a particular rune and he realized he'd completed his task. Severus's back ached from hunching over the letter guardedly, so he stood up, stretched, and made his way to the more comfortable armchair across the room, where he began to read her correspondence.

_Severus,_

_If you're reading this, you've discovered my message to you via Professor Black was in reference to a cipher, specific only to this letter. The next will rely on an entirely different cipher, so that we can communicate safely without fear. Hopefully, I can come up with a different means of conveying the cipher to you, as conversing with Professor Black can be frustrating and tiresome, although you may laugh when I tell you that I used to bring him out to keep Harry and I company around the camp fire when we traveled without Ron._

_Since our meeting in the forest, I've spent countless hours on watch filling journal after journal with notes as I attempt to unravel and understand this entire mess, with special attention paid to how your involvement has helped us, helped the Order. I'm consumed with questions and desperate for answers, and although I come up with new questions almost every second of every day, I've not found one conclusive answer. I know you're thinking that I'm an insufferable know-it-all to the bitter end, and I cannot argue with the legitimacy of that thought. I imagine at some point you'll hit your limit as far as my questions are concerned—perhaps earlier than I'm predicting, and I'm afraid that I'll test your patience with said questions, but that's a risk I'm willing to take, an inevitability we'll work through when we encounter it._

_I'd like to preface all the forthcoming questioning, theorizing, and postulating that in no way calls your sacrifice into question with an expression of gratitude—for the magnitude of what you've done for the Order and the fierceness with which you've protected my life and the lives of my friends. I have a hunch that Harry and Harry alone is the key to solving this, and if that hunch proves correct, I'm grateful that you protected me in the process, and at times, entirely separate from it—you could've cast Ron and I aside, let us fall prey to our own foolishness without a second thought, but you seemingly accepted that looking out for Harry meant looking out for us too, which is an addition to your burden that you likely didn't want or need, but that you accepted without question—and mostly, without complaint._

_Unfortunately, I haven't exactly rewarded you for the undying effort you've made to ensuring we don't destroy ourselves or let others destroy us. In my sometimes willful ignorance, I've behaved appallingly toward you. The following confessions may surprise and/or may infuriate you, but I cannot be sure. You've always known far more than you've ever let on, so I'm uncertain as to whether you ever honed in on these incidences or if they were ever definitively pinned on me, so I will write said confession as if you know nothing, not because I think that it's true but because I want to be completely honest and refrain from lying, even by omission._

_My first year… I was a bad little girl. I set your cape on fire when I thought you were the one jinxing Harry's broom, and I helped the boys break through the various obstacles meant to guard the philosopher's stone, notably your potions riddle (which was brilliant, utterly undeniably brilliant, by the way), certain that it was you who wanted the stone for illicit and self-serving purposes. I regret one thing that year above the others, the fact that I let the boys sway my original opinion of you, which you may be surprised to learn was, while not overwhelmingly positive, that you were a good man who Dumbledore trusted for a reason._

_I let my Gryffindor emotions and the influence of my budding friendships cloud my judgment—my pride swayed me, above all else—you didn't compliment or dote on me like the other professors, so in my mind it was convenient for you to be the dark wizard who criticized me because you hated all that was good and light, my not-so-modest self included. After we realized that Quirrel was the actual villain and not you, I sought to let go of my prejudices and ceased blaming you for every dark or mysterious thing that occurred at Hogwarts._

_Then, my third year, I acted in ways that I regretted then and now. You came to our rescue on the belief that we were in the presence of a confirmed murderer who was considered highly dangerous—you did the logical thing, the thing I would've done had our positions been reversed. You neutralized the threat—tying up Sirius and Lupin for helping him, working of what you believed to be true—that Lupin had helped Sirius infiltrate Hogwarts. I listened to a presumed madman spouting what seemed like nonsense over you; the fact that Scabbers turned out to be Peter is of no consequence, because when I helped disarm you I didn't know that for certain, and I acted rashly and with more force than necessary because I wanted to believe Lupin, the teacher I'd come to trust. In spite of our triple disarmament and blatant disregard of your rational arguments in favor of the ravings of a known convict, you came to our rescue anyway._

_The gravity of the situation should have hit me in the hospital wing, yet instead I claimed that a schoolboy grudge could never justify Sirius's impending execution, but even though I was correct on a moral level, I failed to understand the severity and the extent of the abuse you suffered at the hands of the "Marauders," especially James and Sirius. Over the years, I've blocked you at every turn, thinking I was parrying your attacks when I was really only destabilizing your defenses._

_I'm sorry for the length, but I've already cut it down from the original—I had to write it, to say it, to scream it—something! Some definitive action before one or both of us become casualties of war, statistics in the Prophet or tiny names on some future memorial. Plus, it's nice to be able to write all this, so I don't have to hear your interjections and denials—or see you sneering at my compliments._

_Anyway, now that I've said all that, my questions and theories are all that remains. Severus, how did you become a Death Eater in the beginning? When did you turn Order Spy? What has kept you so steadfastly dedicated to our cause over the last two decades, in the face of all the obstacles we've thrown up, all the unexpected challenges you could've never anticipated when you made the decision to serve two masters? Why did you treat me so cruelly at times—I know I am no better, but I must know?_

_Lastly, that night in the forest hold a special significance for me, a special place in my heart when I opened my mind to a paradigm shift and began to see people as complex instead of simple. You're a great man, Severus—a brave man, one who deserves so much more credit than you've been given. If you don't write back, I hope you at least take the time to read it, because I could never live with myself knowing that you or I died without you knowing how wrong I was, how brave you were, how complex this whole mess really is beneath the surface._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione_

Severus smiled when he read that she anticipated there being a second letter in his future, but as he read on, her words caused his emotions to fluctuate wildly. It felt strange to be acknowledged by her, strange but in a way that lifted his spirits perceptibly. Her apologies were welcome but unnecessary, because after their meeting in the forest, he had seemingly forgotten a good chunk of the times he'd felt wronged by her—although, it had been so long since anyone had apologized to him for anything; most who wronged him simply went on with their lives as if he weren't worthy of an apology, while the others seemed terrified to even attempt to offer him one. The low number of questions surprised him until he realized how layered and complex they were, but he gave her silent kudos for her illusion of brevity there. He rummaged through his desk until he found his own pot of invisible ink and began to write her in return under the same cipher, ignorant to the twilight creeping in on the grounds, ignorant to the effect his absence had on the Great Hall that night.

_Hermione,_

_Yes, the letter proves you are an insufferable know-it-all to the bitter end. But, I find that you have redeemed yourself by admitting that you were wrong about your assumptions of me. That was very satisfying, indeed—and something I never expected to hear from you—a retraction. I cannot answer all your questions—any wizard would be hard-pressed to answer all your questions, in fact, as they are seemingly never-ending, infinite and perpetually in motion. It's nice to be somewhat vindicated as you reflect back on the events that have unfolded over the years since your hand first shot up in the air in my class directly before you spoke out-of-turn._

_You may or may not believe that I find Phineas just as trying at times, as most only see the things loosely linking us as opposed to the vast number of key differences. Your apologies are amusing, but not in the way you think—I've known you were the culprit in all the misdeeds you mentioned (perhaps one in the unabridged version will catch me by surprise) but they are unnecessary, as I've never harbored any ill will toward you in particular—your association with Potter provoked my ire more than your actions ever did, which is unfair to you and merits its own apology. Except for stealing from my stores, as some of those ingredients are hard to obtain and expensive to procure._

_I know you think that you've been constantly a thorn in my side, like your friend Weasley, however that's not how I perceive it. Your intellect has helped Potter immeasurably, especially since he was always more likely to heed your advice than mine. At times, I even counted on your cleverness, like when I assigned the essay on werewolves. I knew Lupin wouldn't force your classmates to complete the assignment with as much certainty as I knew that you would have already completed it by my arbitrary deadline._

_You certainly ask the hard-hitting questions, Hermione; I see a quick-quotes-quill in your future. I think that I'll answer your questions in reverse order, as although you've cleverly tried to invert them so that they're ranked least important to most important, it's easy to see which one you must know the answer to, above the others. You swapped its rank to avoid appearing selfish, but you must remember that it isn't wrong to look after one's own selfish interests._

_Now that you are no longer my student, I will freely add that you are a brilliant witch with remarkable talent, but all that telling you such things does is keep you happy at your present level of success. Someone had to take up the difficult position of your counterweight. You had already surpassed needing praise to flourish; you needed criticism—it incensed you and drove you forward. There was a method to my madness. Praise does one little good—it stagnates true growth and progress, and I think if you would've ignored the haze of emotions so commonly clouding the minds of young Gryffindors, you would've come to appreciate that fact. I do not require praise to keep me moving forward—and that has helped me immeasurably in the thankless job of teaching, as well as the thankless job as a Death Eater turned Order spy._

_At times, I was brutal with you because of some external pressure on my life, but that was a rarity—most times I simply refused to indulge you, because I knew you could do better if only someone pushed you hard enough. And I repeat, you really needn't apologize to me, Hermione, because with that said, I've treated you in an equally appalling manner at times. I doubt you will believe me, but my comment about your teeth has caused me a lot of shame and regret. It was unkind—an adult man of my appearance shouldn't strive to slay the confidence of a fifteen year old girl, especially an already insecure one. I later heard from Madam Pomfrey that you used a minimizing charm on your teeth, and I felt terrible._

_Also, if you're asking indirectly if I've ever felt any malice towards you because of your misdeeds, then the answer is no, not particularly—I do not spend my time going over the various failures of Hermione Granger. When I think about you in any context, it's never about your failures, if that matters. The Hermione I met in the forest wasn't Granger the insufferable know-it-all. She was a force to be reckoned with—brave and stubborn and open-minded and brilliant, as always. Those are the only compliments you'll wrest from me._

_In regard to why I became a Death Eater, I don't possibly expect you to understand why even if I tell you so in plain terms. Do not think I am patronizing you, because in truth, I envy you. Only those who darkness has touched can see its appeal—my childhood was constantly overshadowed by darkness, so I had no idea how to live in the light. It's like thestrals, really. Only those who have seen death can see the thestrals—just as the only ones who can find solace in the darkness are those that have already been affected by it. I met a group of death eaters before the term was even coined, and in their ranks, I could hide among the dark gravity of their own misdeeds, the darkness of their archaic beliefs, and their warped senses of morality—I looked positively normal by comparison, and I liked that I never even had to try to be better, as I already was._

_Plus, growing up powerless to change my circumstances left me with a hunger for control, and I found it among the death eaters. We were powerful and incited fear, no one hurt us, no one bullied us. Nietzsche postulated that happiness could only be achieved with the acquisition of power, and that's really the overarching philosophy behind being a death eater, even if it is vicarious power. I felt powerful, master of my own destiny for the very first time, until one night the illusion came shattering down, which is when I switched sides—but it wasn't a desire to turn over a new leaf or become something else, it was out of longing and guilt for something that no longer existed or was._

_When one has no attachments, fulfilling the role of double agent is easy—the Dark Lord is so ignorant in matters of the heart that he doesn't realize that a lack of any love at all is just as suspicious as being too consumed by it. He played his trump card early, and now he has no leverage to wield over me. Sometimes though, I hear the comforting siren song of darkness call, and it feels like I could slip seamlessly into my death eater persona and forget all about the Order._

_You may never realize how lucky you are just to be able to be yourself, unless you spend half your life playing two halves of someone else, never knowing what lies in the middle, in the no man's land between your identities. Are you dark or light? Are you brave or cowardly? In each situation, one contradicts the other until you have no idea which way is up anymore—which way was up, ever? I hope you never experience the horrors that I have—let your mind grow unsullied by the maw of depression and deaf to the call of the darkness._

_My motives at times have been pure at times and at others they have been disgustingly impure and self-serving. I appreciate your compliments, and contrary to your quip I am not sneering, but I want you to know that I am not the man you think I am. Sometimes, I struggle to understand why I'm still playing this role—honestly, its pure inertia now, but the Dark Lord is growing weaker, and that is promising for us, although I've still got miles to go before I sleep._

_Severus_


	5. Within You, Without You

**V. Within You, Without You**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

A month prior, Hermione had been wandering the woods in search of food—berries or mushrooms, anything to sate the immutable ache in her stomach, when a raven hopped into her path from behind a patch of brambles, cawing wildly. She watched it for a moment as it sprang into the air and flapped furiously to no avail, and she noticed that the bird had a broken wing. She knelt down near the bird and carefully took it in her hands as it loudly crowed in fear. Hermione brought it back to camp, where she found herself alone—Harry had also been out foraging for food.

Hermione fashioned a splint for the bird's wing and placed it in Hedwig's old cage in order to monitor it as it healed. She grew fond of the bird, which she called "Corvy." Every morning she dug in the dirt for worms and grubs, collecting enough to feed the raven for a full day. After she fed him, she removed him from the cage, allowing him to move freely about the tent, where he cawed and hopped and flapped desperately in attempt to fly. Hermione watched on sadly as he tried his strength. She stowed him in her beaded bag each time they changed location, never leaving him inside it for very long.

The clever raven grew accustomed to Hermione, even perching on the fingertips of her outstretched hand. Corvy also enjoyed it when Hermione would place him to perch on her shoulder as she moved about within the tent. Finally, his wing had begun to heal with the aid of some magical repairing spells—and then one day Corvy sprung into the air and flapped and finally caught the air beneath his wings and flew upwards, cawing triumphantly as Hermione watched on and clapped her hands together with glee that her new avian companion had flown successfully for the first time since she plucked him from the forest floor.

She kept him for another week to ensure that he could fly with enough ability to evade any potential predators until she was confident he could do so. She stroked his feathered head as she often did and he cawed softly from his perch on her shoulder. The two had grown fond of one another—Hermione had needed something to care for and spoil without her beloved Crookshanks for company, and Corvy had filled the void—and spoil him she did, digging enough grubs and worms for him to gorge himself daily and training him and petting his head and back to tail-feathers. Corvy bonded with Hermione as well, flitting about her feet as she walked around the tent, perching on her shoulder to sleep as she read on night watch, making no effort to fly off in escape of her.

Hermione reluctantly released him into the forest, but to her surprise he remained nearly constantly by her side, ever her companion in the lonely woods. She struggled with the decision over whether to take him with her to their next destination, finally deciding that she would do so, and from then on he went wherever they did. She continued to train the clever bird in a similar way to the method used to train owls for the postal service.

It gave her something to occupy her time—something to teach, and Corvy adapted to her training with exceptional swiftness and ease, perhaps even more clever than the owls the course of training was designed for specifically. Although she attempted to conceal the bird from Harry, it obviously proved impossible, but he seemed to accept it without question or comment—anything that made her smile in Ron's absence.

Directly before Severus had arrived that night in the Forest of Dean, she'd let Corvy outside to fly about in the snow, so he wasn't present for their encounter. She'd posted the letter the day afterward, so that Corvy could return by the next morning, before they departed for Ottery St. Catchpole

She imparted her knowledge of geography to the raven so he could find Severus at Hogwarts, and she tied the scroll of parchment to his leg with red string and petted and kissed his head before holding him up, cupped in her hands, so he could fly away, bound for Hogwarts. She hoped that a raven wouldn't draw suspicion—as only the owls were searched. Plus, she had sent Corvy with very specific instructions as to where to deliver the letter—directly to his quarters—and under what circumstances it could be given to him—when he was alone and unoccupied.

When she reached Shell Cottage, she dispatched Corvy back to Hogwarts in the hope that Severus had written her a reply. That morning Severus awoke to a light yet urgent tapping at his windowpane that startled him out of sleep. He staggered out of bed toward the window, where Hermione's raven flapped and continued tapping on the glass, and Severus groggily threw open. He petted the rook on its head before untying a small scrap of parchment from the bird's leg and replacing it with his own letter.

He unfolded the parchment; its contents perplexed him—she'd pasted a photo of a statue bust of a familiar-looking Roman general, one that she'd obviously ripped from a book and written the words "Minus Seven" across it. Severus smirked when he thought about the fact that Hermione had willingly cut up and defaced a book in order to convey her next cipher to him, but although he knew he recognized the austere looking man wearing a laurel wreath in the photograph, he couldn't identify him with any certainty, and he had absolutely no idea what "minus seven" referred to—he rolled his eyes when he realized that she had essentially assigned him research, but he immediately set to the task just the same.

The salty air rustled Hermione's hair as she sat on the beach, the small waves lapping near her feat before receding. She'd walked a few miles away from Shell Cottage without alerting anyone, a decision she regretted now as she thought of the fact that she'd be easy pray for any snatchers lucky enough to be lurking on the outskirts of the Fidelius Charm's boundary. The cottage and the sea imbued her with a sense of peace that had abandoned her long ago, and she welcomed it inwardly like a good friend. She knew the visit would be short, but she decide to bask in it until it departed again rather than call it into question.

The permanence of the residence and the serene surroundings washed away much of the remnant stress left behind in the wake of the transient lifestyle she'd led over the last few months. A hermit crab wriggled its small antennae at her as it crawled by her feet, and she regarded it fondly as the reeds swayed in the wind, caressing her back. She wrapped her arms around her knees and perched her chin on her folded hands, taking in the scene and the feeling of freedom it afforded her—storing it in her memory bank as inspiration to reflect upon in the trying times to come. She lifted her head, holding her hand level with her eyebrows to shield her from the painfully bright rays of the sun, and she remembered why she'd meandered so far from the sanctuary of the cottage.

Smiling, she withdrew a pad of paper from her beaded bag and a simple muggle pen to draft her reply to the letter Severus had sent her a day earlier. When she'd sent the raven to deliver her message to him, she didn't know whether to expect a reply, although she hoped against hope that he would dignify her questions with a response to ease the torment of the unknown on her tired mind. She'd been thrilled to receive his first letter and astounded when she realized he'd answered all her questions, mostly without comment or any written objection, although she could feel the snark living in the words as she read the letter (an observation that made her strangely happy) and imagined his sonorous voice.

The way he read her carefully composed questions and saw right through her attempt to present them in a way that hid the importance with which she placed them had made her gasp—she knew he had the ability to see into people's minds, but she had no idea he could do so by analyzing only her words. She had read his first answer over and over, noticing new things crop up with each read. She had expected him to gloss over that question in particular due to its personal nature, which is why she penned it last, so it would seem inconsequential, an afterthought in the form of a question thrown in for good measure.

The argument he presented was sound, and the more credence she gave to it, the more she appreciated him both for his original effort and for clearly explaining his logic to her in the letter. She thought back to her first year at Hogwarts, remembering the soaring feeling of being the teacher's pet, feeling like a cut above the rest; she so adored being complimented and talked up and doted on that she felt entitled to it and jilted when Severus denied her of it—at that tender age, she failed to realize the damage such a benign thing could do. It seemed so clear to her when he explained his reasoning that she wondered why he never explicitly expressed his philosophy at the time, but then a thought clicked in her mind—even telling her his philosophy could've passed for validation or special treatment in her eyes.

She thought back to her other classes, the ones taught by professors who venerated her and loudly celebrated her intellect; she had always performed well, exceeded expectations, so perhaps she could've flourished without criticism? She pursed her lips in thought, recalling how well she remembered her potions lessons in comparison to her other classes—vague memories of her various professors standing at lecterns speaking soundlessly to the class, soundlessly because she couldn't quite remember their exact words or even which specific lecture she was seeing in her mind's eye.

However, when she recalled Severus's class, she remembered sitting in rapt attention as he stood at the lectern, speaking words she couldn't forget if she tried—especially his very first lecture, when he spoke of potions as beautifully as if he were describing a priceless painting or a revered piece of music, his love of his subject clear in his magnificently rich voice with a cadence so unique to him. She clearly remembered most of her lessons; she remembered the disasters her classmates produced—the explosions, the accidental self-inflicted injuries, the bio-hazards so often bubbling ominously in Neville's smoking cauldron, always off in color and consistency.

Every criticism Snape leveled at her seemed etched in her mind with a permanence that had formerly frightened her—all her mistakes in sharp relief, forever remembered, flashing to the forefront every so often to hit her with a deep pang of shame and fear of further failure. Now, she regarded them differently—she remembered every correction he made to her work, except she only remembered the correct answer, not her original answer, the wrong one. So, it was not so much evidence of her mistakes as it was evidence of her learning and growing, as well as her continued and correct retention of the subject matter at hand— _that's the goal of any professor worth their wand, isn't it? What good is it if you already know all the right answers and never learn anything that sticks with you as long and as fully as Severus's criticisms and corrections have?_ She wondered.

She remembered Severus's useful and sometimes downright ingenious tips she'd gleaned from his copy of advanced potion making, before she knew he was the one who had written them in the margins. She remembered how fervently she wanted to win the Felix Felicis and the injustice she felt when Harry won it using unfair means—it was then she realized that Severus had bested her that day, not Harry; this prompted another realization—Severus obviously knew more than her, which she had known before on an intellectual level but never really thought long about. Severus's knowledge was superior to hers, she did not know everything, and she had learned invaluable things from him, things she imagined she would remember her whole life long, and she suddenly felt an immense amount of respect for the man, surpassing even her earlier admiration of him.

If he'd simply allowed her to keep on pretending that she knew everything without challenging her, she wouldn't have expanded her knowledge as vastly as she had through the spark of his criticism; if he hadn't cared, he wouldn't have bothered to be her counterweight, a thought that made her heart swell with pride and acknowledgement beyond any she felt in the presence of her other outwardly doting yet well-meaning professors.

She frowned as she re-read Severus's second answer, regarding his initiation into the Death Eaters at a young age. The answer he'd penned was thorough and thoughtful as well as thought-provoking; she could tell he crafted his response with care and with an emphasis on full disclosure and honesty, even if it came across as brutal and uncomfortable at times. The response gave her new insight into the depth of his character, which was somehow more complex and enigmatic than ever even after baring his soul so forthrightly. She appreciated that he took care to write that his words weren't meant to be patronizing, although she doubted she would've felt that way even without him stating it.

The weight of some of his ideas and concepts had kept her awake the last few nights, gazing at the ceiling deep in thought as she lay beside a sleeping Luna. She never realized that she had previously thought of darkness in such limited terms—overwhelmingly in reference to fighting it. The idea of darkness as a soft place to fall or a safe place to hide for those who have been engendered in it, grown up in it, or have been touched by it through experience was a new concept to her—that was until the night at Malfoy Manor, where she was given a timely lesson in just that.

She'd grown up "in the light" as Severus had so eloquently put it, but her adolescence had been shadowed by darkness at many points, by a matter of differing degrees. While camping in the countryside, she'd wanted so badly to give up and go home, abandoning her friend in favor of shameless self-preservation—was that voice in her head the so-called siren song of darkness that Severus spoke of? She thought it could be, and on the night that occurred not so long ago, she was certain she'd heard it when Bellatrix cast the Cruciatus on her. She traced the "mudblood" scar with her fingertip when she thought back to the night it was inflicted upon her—with the Cruciatus, the darkness had almost pulled her under, and she knew she understood more than Severus thought she did.

The sensation that had hit her was unlike anything she'd ever felt before; pain came from within and without—it felt as though her nerves had been first frayed, then barbed and weaponized against her in a manner so excruciating that she couldn't feel the knife as Bellatrix carved the slur in her arm. The pain was multi-faceted—it was mental anguish, physical pain, emotional hysteria, and spiritual reckoning combined, transcending the laws of metaphysics to inflict a full body and soul assault. She heard her screams pierce through the room as they were wrested from her—although she didn't even realize the screams were hers until later. Nearly all conscious thought had been wiped out and all that was left was pain, pain, pain. She felt pain, she was pain, she embodied pain, pain was everything, pain was all.

The few conscious thoughts that made it through said pain were all of one mind—begging death to take her and make it stop. She heard the call of darkness as if it were an entity all its own; it bade her to save herself, betray her friends, give up, _save yourself, it all can end when you say it does, you just must listen to and heed me._ It was a wordless call—she simply felt the meaning in its caress. Eventually, she simply gave into the pain rather than fighting it, and there came a time when it hit some invisible threshold and lapsed into a sort of euphoria that carried her through until Bellatrix finally lifted the curse, causing the strange and unexplained euphoria to abruptly disappear, replaced with an almost unbearable echo of the earlier pain as it throbbed in her and around her.

She wondered how many times Severus had been subjected to the Cruciatus, certain that it was more than her one—his steadfastness and bravery in the face of such all-consuming anguish seemed impossible, and her admiration of him peaked until she felt it was impossible to admire him more than she did presently. The last question he answered seemed to be the one giving him the most trouble—the question of why? Hermione strongly suspected her theory to be correct, but she had a feeling he wouldn't be honest with her about that yet—if he ever would.

The answer he gave her was semi-satisfying, and she gave him credit for answering it at all, as it so obviously made him uncomfortable; it paled it comparison to his previous answer, and the key difference was clear—the previous answer seemed to leap from the page to her heart, guiding her through his journey like the deluminator had done for Ron, while the last answer rang hollow and sounded more noncommittal than truly honest. This contrast, in her mind, supported her theory in a way—as did some of the language he used. She decided not to press or pester him about it for now, bubbling over with content over the contents of the rest of the letter. She clicked her pen and began to write.

_Severus,_

_I appreciate the care you took in composing your thoughtful and thorough reply. When I saw no blatant criticism of my annoying tendency to hit you with an onslaught of questions, I wondered for a moment who the letter's true author could be, but the information therein contains things only you would know—imagine my surprise! Your application of the Socratic method in your teaching of me went by unnoticed and unappreciated by my capricious younger self—so since I am no longer in possession of a time turner, I hope my sincere apology will suffice, as well as my compliments to your brilliance and tenacity in dealing with me in all my insufferable glory._

_I appreciate it more than words can say—and thinking back to your lessons, I know it to be true and effective. I'm unsure if the news has reached you as of yet, but there's really no way to preface this, so I will just come out and say it. We were captured by a band of snatchers and Death Eaters, who discovered that they unknowingly and fortuitously had Harry in their custody. We were tied up and taken to Malfoy Manor, where there was some debate over the true identity of they boy who they thought purportedly to be Harry._

_In the middle of the debate, Bellatrix noticed the sword of Gryffindor in a snatcher's possession, which infuriated her and she began her own line of questioning. She isolated me upstairs, sending my friends and the rest of the prisoners to the cellar while they decided what to do about "maybe-Harry." Bellatrix wasted no time in putting me under the Cruciatus—I'm unsure how long I was cursed, because time seemed to warp, so that it felt like the span of several lifetimes. She carved the word "mudblood" on my arm as well, lovely woman._

_My time spent under the Cruciatus surpassed the combined effect of all the pain I've ever felt in my life many times over, which I'm sure you know, but I still feel it must be said. I wonder how you've kept your sanity all these years, as I was close to cracking in mere moments. You may tire of me writing it, but my admiration for you is dazzling—you are the bravest man I've ever known. We're staying in a cottage on the beach with some members of the Order, and the return of some semblance of normalcy has been exceedingly pleasant and peaceful._

_We're in the midst of planning something that is likely destined to fail—the obstacles are so great. I wish I could ask you your thoughts on it, because in all your wisdom maybe you can pinpoint exactly where it goes off the rails. The sword has been invaluable to our mission; the vial of phoenix tears hasn't been needed yet, but it's nice to have on hand—more importantly that that, it's the catalyst that originally bonded us and is allowing me to get to know you now, an experience that's perhaps more invaluable than the sword._

_We've not set a definitive date for the launching of our plan, but we're thinking in the next few weeks. Hopefully, we'll have exchanged another letter by then, but if that never comes to be and I die in this reckless and miserable attempt that seems to be our only present option, I want to relay that I'm very happy to have met you and very proud of all you've done and continue to do. Maybe I can annoy you with questions for eternity if we meet again in the next life, if there is such a thing or such a place for souls as damaged as ours. I can only hope so. If such a thing doesn't come to pass, forgive my sentimentality; please, don't fault me for it later. Thank you also for watching over my friends and giving them light "punishments."_

_Best,_

_Hermione._

Severus stood in the library of Malfoy Manor while the Dark Lord paced and Nagini hovered close by, writhing in her magical cage. Distraught, the Dark Lord wrung his skeletal hands as he spoke, "Severus, I'm sure you've heard by now of the others' failure to keep Harry Potter here for me."

"Yes, My Lord, but no details," he answered.

"Bellatrix seemed to think it more prudent to torture the mudblood than to ensure that Harry Potter didn't escape," the Dark Lord steepled his fingers, and both his slit nostrils and his red eyes flared in anger.

Severus froze, "The mudblood my Lord?"

Voldermort waved his hand dismissively, "You know, the girl who travels with him."

Severus coughed to hide his fear as he reinstated his composure in order to carry on as if unfazed, nodding with feigned nonchalance in response. "Ah, yes, she always was a thorn in my side," Severus mumbled, hoping he hadn't said it affectionately the way he felt it.

"Perhaps," Severus began, "Bellatrix should be punished so she understands the gravity of her _mistake_ …" A glint of revenge shone in his eyes, where the Dark Lord, who had his back turned, couldn't see it flashing coldly in the candlelit library.

"Ah, the tension between you and Bellatrix has long been crystal clear to me," the Dark Lord chuckled mirthlessly. "But, I must remind you of your place Severus—although you are my main adviser you should consider yourself lucky to hold such a high place. The Lestranges are the only ones who remained true to me all along, without question—when all others abandoned me, yourself included."

Severus swallowed and his brow furrowed, "It is easy to remain loyal locked in a cell in Azkaban—there is not much else to do. And, as I've said before, I thought you to be dead, my Lord."

"You are a shrewd man, Severus, yet you failed to find me until the signs of my return proved too obvious for even you to ignore," Voldermort regarded him suspiciously for a moment.

"My Lord, it is true that I am a shrewd man, and my many years in your service have taught me to be wary of such grand claims. I merely thought an imposter had usurped your history to use towards his own ends. Forgive my oversight—I felt that when you truly returned, it would be impossible to deny, which it was when you returned to a mortal body, at which point I apparated to your side in mere hours," Severus explained, and Voldermort seemed satisfied with his answer.

Severus's mind worked rapidly, and he returned to their earlier topic, ready with a defense if questioned, "What punishments did Bellatrix inflict on the young mudblood?" The word stung his tongue, but he thought it gave his question an air of authenticity.

Voldermort shot him a calculating look, "Why are you so interested in such digressive things as this?"

"As I stated before, my Lord, the girl has simply been a thorn in my side for years—an insufferable know-it-all who thought she'd be better suited to my lectern than her own desk. Hearing of her suffering gives me a rush of vicarious thrill," Severus gave his master his best mimicry of a mad smile.

Voldermort returned it with equally insane fervor, "Understandable, Severus. Bellatrix put her under the Cruciatus as she interrogated her for more than twenty five minutes—and she carved her blood-status on her arm to make it easier for the rest of us to identify her. I must admit she performed admirably, if not for her oversight when it came to the boy."

Voldermort looked gleefully into the fire. Severus put forth his best attempt at a jeering laugh, which fell flat on his ears but didn't rouse the suspicion of his master. Severus's thoughts were consumed with the image of Hermione under the Cruciatus, writhing in pain in midair—her pain became his own pain—and the thought of Bellatrix carving that filthy slur into her arm gave him blood rage of an entirely new kind. He hoped against hope that she was alright, that she made it out relatively unscathed by Bellatrix's especially mad branch of dark magic.


	6. Rust and Stardust

**VI. Rust and Stardust**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Before the outbreak of the second wizarding war, Severus failed to appreciate the simple joy in synapses firing to recall a memory until after having to constantly suppress his thoughts, feelings, and fears. The recollection of the wrong memory at the wrong moment could ultimately result his death—worse than that, the domino effect of all the other innocent lives destroyed by his inability to control his mind. And he knew too well the limits of occlumency.

Every night, he reviewed his memory of the day, extracting any trace of his traitorous behavior to the pensieve so that the Dark Lord wouldn't be privy to it—removing all happy memories, however few—because anything that made him happy could be used to break him. Then, he would catalogue the remaining material into some semblance of a timeline resembling the life of a normal person, unfettered by such constraints, so when the Dark Lord inevitably probed his mind, he would see only his faithful servant doing his bidding at his behest, instead of the duplicitous traitor who once hung on Albus's arm by day and his at nighttime.

Any one single mistake could jeopardize everything, put their allies— _and Hermione—_ in danger, or worst of all, he could fail to remove a memory containing something that could give the Dark Lord power over him, and any object of desire, whether it be a friend or lover or object or abstract thing, the Dark Lord was so adept at manipulation that he could have even Severus singing like a canary in mere moments. Removing so much of his memory, wasn't pleasant, nor was it normal—the resultant gaps, where he remembered only themes and major points, not details or nuance, troubled him. The impenetrability of his mind due to weakening his memories, although the desired result, proved all-consuming as his mind strove autonomously to desperately fill in the blanks his meddling had created, immune to his memory charms and magic as it tried to repair itself and restore its normal function.

His emotions fluctuated because his stability was thrown off by his own editing of his thoughts—he felt suddenly sad because he excised the memory that fell between his sadness and his happiness, and though he knew a piece was definitely missing, logically and internally, one's emotions are not logical, so although he could mute their full effect, he could never fully control them. Time skewed to such a degree that it hardly mattered at all. As a young and naïve man, he once thought that when he lay down at night, he'd receive a reprieve—the truth left him stricken and saddened. The control he'd perfected ceased to exist behind his eyes without him awake at the helm.

His brain brought all he'd tried to stifle to the surface, usually the horrors he experienced; even after placing a memory in the pensieve, out of reach of prying eyes, it could appear in his dreams—fuzzy and unclear, usually just the general gist, but the elements that made him place it out-of-reach in the first place inexplicably magnified themselves, so instead of some vague concept of fear that usually presents itself in dreams, he was met with a conception of fear that embodied the raw, visceral feeling itself—cranking up its intensity. Any atrocity he'd committed and removed to save his sanity inevitably and inexorably reappeared at night, except all the justifications he'd told himself to force himself to commit the unforgivable act were wiped out upon the memories removal.

In the dream, he appeared as the worst version of himself, reduced to only the strongest emotion prevailing, and because one must mean it when one curses someone, that emotion was usually hatred or rage. So, he appeared—all fury and malice—while the victim was reduced to the emotion he projected onto them. So, since he viewed himself as an evil person murdering an innocent victim—in the dream, he embodied pure evil and the victim pure innocence, and with no subtlety he seemingly committed said atrocity for no reason—just on pure fury-fueled impulse, and he watched as if outside of himself in third person; he would watch in horror as he mercilessly Avadad a victim, reduced to innocence alone because he dared to feel remorse, powerless to stop it. And sometimes, even though he committed the crime, the dream played out with him as the victim, all innocence targeted by an unrecognizable demonic version of himself, and he wondered _why?_

This led him to think about them thinking the same thing, feeling the same fear as he finished them off or continued to torture them, for no other reason he could think of in the dream other than pure impulse. In his dreams, it ceased to matter if he was simply playing a part convincingly or whether he was truly, 100% committed and all-in—he became the same thing, a thing seemingly motivated only by malice, rage, and hatred, whether he felt that way in life or not.

The abstractness worsened the experience; although he had expected it to tone down the intensity of his fear, it somehow had the opposite effect, because he lacked the ability to determine abstract versus concrete in the dream, so all he knew is what he was seeing wasn't normal and he'd been thrown into it—there was no reality to grapple with, he was simply himself, scared beyond belief because none of it made sense, yet he'd eliminated his perceptive ability to distinguish dream from reality when he'd meddled with memories.

It was like a corrupted file that the processor in his brain continuously attempted to properly process and store, but it failed because he'd removed it, but the brain's instinctual processes never stop, so he suffered its re-attempts every night, without fail. Even memories he'd allowed to remain to maintain the illusion of an unaltered mind had a way of haunting his dreams. There was no need to remove the memory of the night he learned of Lily's death at his master's hands—he knew he wanted her spared, or he knew he desired her at the very least. So, he left it untouched, unaltered, but occasionally it still cropped up in the nightly rotation—close enough to reality to know conclusively that he was indeed dreaming, yet too overpowering to wake up in order to escape.

So, he watched himself much like if he put the memory in the pensieve, and likewise there was nothing he could do to intervene. Sometimes, he saw it from the first person perspective, which somehow felt easier than seeing it from third-person—seeing himself that wounded was unbearably unpleasant when he was used to being in control of the situation. The repetition of those unaltered and untouched memories was rare though; it was mostly the memories he had removed that haunted him nightly.

He also dreamt of betraying both of his masters in turn, of falling to deeply into one persona, one mind, denying the other completely. He almost preferred the ones with the Dark Lord—somehow his outright fury and anticipated tortures seem routine. With Albus, however, it was different. No killing curse came, no Cruciatus, no torture, no Veritaserum, just an overarching, all-consuming feeling of shame so strong that it persisted for minutes even upon waking. Those ice blue eyes pierce his body and soul as if they were weapons, leaving holes that feel obscene—in the dream he strove to cover them until he could longer conceal them with just his hands as he pierced him with every look. The look had a voice that screamed "coward," and it echoed maddeningly for what felt like an eternity every time, and every time, he doubted would end—he wondered if it was the limbo he'd created for himself through damaging his soul beyond likely repair, and he feel his sanity slip, further and further each time, until he woke up screaming, sweating, and shaking, attempting to cover the invisible gaping holes with his hands until reality revealed itself to him again.

He prized those rare, good dreams—the ones he wanted to last for an eternity or more. He'd gotten to hold Lily, to embrace her, to touch her, make love to her. She'd forgiven him and accepted him and left James to be with him. They'd lived eons in the dreams—they had a family, they had a life, they had a future when truly they only had a past. Each time he woke up feeling completely bereft, as if his nonexistent family with her were real and had just tragically passed away. In his brain's confusion, they felt as real as the extracted memories that morphed into nightmares, so when he woke up he wracked his brain to remember which version was the true one.

Then, there were the manifestations of some of his fears, things that never occurred in reality were expounded upon and exaggerated and malformed in a devastating way. The ones with Lily were always the worst—he saw her being intimate with James in such detail that he feel violated after—their copulating image still burned on his retinas. He would watch her throw herself in front of her son, and then he would be forced to watch her struggle and die, unable to intervene—although in life, he wasn't present at the scene. Sometimes, she was his tormentor along with demented carnival-like caricatures of the other marauders, looming over him in a circle that panned over each face on a black background before starting over to continue on an endless loop.

Sometimes, he dreamt that his childhood was different, in a good sort of way—not exceptionally wonderful, but at least passable, which to him equaled exceptionally wonderful anyway. His mother would hold him and comforts him and talk to him and give him guidance. She would hold his hand as they walked places together, just for fun—no purpose for the excursion. She would tell him about her life in plain terms and would care of her appearance and his—he felt more confident than he ever had in life. Sometimes, she would even leave his father and they would go into hiding together, so happy to be free that it overshadowed all else. She would sit and have tea with Lily's parents in their garden as Petunia would sulk, visible through the barrier of the glass windowpane of the French doors.

He'd never had a pleasant dream about his father, sometimes he was simply less bad than he was in life. He'd dream sometimes of his mother, alive, seeking him out to ask for his forgiveness and a second chance—sometimes he would accept, but usually he would decline or slam the door in her face or both, although neither option ever felt like a conscious choice. He'd watched Potter die without much emotion until he saw the ghosts of him and Lily, as she shook her head at him in disappointment, tears streaming from the green eyes they both share, as she guards her son from his inadequate protection and influence, until the eyes were all he saw, like the billboard in the Great Gatsby.

Sometimes, he'd never stray from the life of the light, and he would denounce the death eaters who were once his friends to pursue his potion's mastery with a fresh outlook, eventually awarded the same position he once occupied, except he would be somewhat happy and free and unmarked by the Dark Lord. Sometimes, the opposite would occur, and he would throw himself into the death eater's crusade with a full fervor, rivaling that of Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy, even. He would peer through the eyes of the silver death mask; he would participate in the orgies and the sexual assaults and the killings and the tortures without so much as a second thought. It was always unbearable graphic, so much so that he would wake up feeling dirty and disgustingly weak, his self-loathing reaching a fever pitch.

Lately, he'd dreamt of Hermione—through many different and varying scenarios. He first dreamt over her overreacting in the forest upon seeing him—attacking him viciously until he killed her accidentally, at which point he would startle awake with a jolt to his heart and the rush of instant regret that would inevitably follow the committal of such a horrid act, and relief when he realized it was never real—immense relief that felt almost euphoric as it washed over him, along with the rest of his current reality. Despite his protestations to Phineas, he often dreamt of watching her naked as she bathed in the river near their camp—the boys nowhere in sight, thankfully.

In the dream, he feared approaching her, he feared rejection—even though he wanted her so desperately at that moment; that desperation ultimately mounts until he summoned it to tentatively make his approach. Surprisingly, his presence did not startle her; on the contrary, she flashed him a coy smile in invitation, and his heart lodged itself in his throat as he touched her naked flesh in silent admiration. The tension built at an agonizingly slow place as they caress and touch and fondle each other in the most intimate of ways, but just as he was about to finally possess her, to have her, to fuck her—he'd wake up cold and alone, with the only remnant of the dream apparent as it pitched the sheets.

Other dreams were even more risqué—a younger Hermione. He would lay her across his desk, papers flying around in slow-motion as they kiss and cling and grope one another, spilled ink pooling on the floor from cracked inkwells, staining discarded white-feather quills and lucky student's un-graded papers. In this dream, he was allowed to have her, and it felt magnificent and wrong and dizzying and inappropriate as much as it felt incredibly arousing. Sometimes she would invite him into her tent in the Forest of Dean and they would drink tea and talk as if they were old friends, until one of them would finally slip up and says something betraying their lustful thoughts—leading to them falling naked into her bunk, filled with raw, driving need as they moved together in a way that felt so incredibly right. The sexual tension, while always present and pressing, was not always explicit—at times, they would sit in his private rooms and talk and debate and banter back and forth until he'd wake up, inexplicably smiling.

Then again, the dreams about Hermione were not always pleasant, especially after learning about what occurred at the manor, even though they were overwhelmingly so. Occasionally, he would burst into a room to find that she'd been captured by the Dark Lord—he would see her tied up, sometimes hanging upside down floating like Charity Burbage had been, and he'll hear that cold, clear laugh that snakes coldly up his spine with a shiver, and he'll watch him torture her with glee, relishing in watching him fall apart, somehow paralyzed to intervene or stop him or do anything other than sob and scream, until finally he finishes her off with so little disregard she may has well have been an inanimate object, before allowing the snake to gorge itself on her fresh corpse.

Other times, the Dark Lord would give her freely to Lucius Malfoy before stunning him, forcing him to watch him slowly defile her before his very eyes—unblinking and forcibly fixated on the scene unfolding horrifically before him as his violations grow worse and worse, more violent, more obscene, ever-changing…until he would wake up in a cold-sweat, suddenly flailing to life as if the stunning curse had just then been lifted, panting and feeling a fast-erupting hatred of his friend Lucius Malfoy and such a strong desire to murder him for his actions in the dream that he had to forcibly stop himself, reassuring him of reality over and over and over, usually until dawn, when the urge had finally subsided in a haze of insomnia and confusion.

Worse yet, his mind would sometimes substitute the Dark Lord for Lucius, and he would have to watch his beloved be raped by his former master—in life, the strange scene before him would give him pause, because while Severus never did, Voldermort only rarely participated in the infamous orgies, and when he did so, it was briefly and half-heartedly—usually he would consort briefly with Bellatrix at her insistency as Rodolphus watched on from the corner, his brooding displeasure apparent even under his mask—the intensity of his gaze filled the eye-holes of the mask as if he were boring through it, burning it away. The Dark Lord paid little mind to baser urges like sex, even less to abstract concepts to him—love and affection.

The oddness of his dream in reality always failed to pass with him into the dream, and the scene felt real and devastating—Hermione's screams pierced his ears with such force that it amazed him upon waking that he had only dreamt and imagined the sound. Sometimes, at the end, the Dark Lord would leave her discarded on the floor, releasing Severus; Severus would run to her—sometimes running futilely until he woke up; other times he would reach her and kneel down and embrace her while they both sobbed and she withered and died and turned to dust and ash in his arms. Most disturbing to him was one such dream, an anomaly among the rest with one of two predictable ends—once his master released him and he regarded Hermione lying on the floor with disgust and proclaimed her damaged goods and simply walked away.

The shame he felt that night put his post-Albus nightmares to shame—the idea that his thoughts could conceptualize and engender such a scenario left him reeling, wondering if he was capable of such cruelty, doubting his conscience for days and days. Severus hardly remembered a time when his memory was allowed to exist, whole and intact, unedited, untouched and unaltered, with a smooth timeline—although different perceptions of the passage of time are inevitable, they typically fit in logically with the corresponding substance of the memory paired with it. Even when he eventually returned the memories to his mind, he felt a flurry of confusion

When he thought the Dark Lord to be dead, he left his memory to form, and his emotions remained more even-keel, and his outbursts reached a slow and semi-logical crescendo that at least made sense to him, as opposed to the out-of-nowhere explosions he was now prone to. His role as a spy required a strong core mind, the section between the overlapping circle graphs, where his true nature existed. The convictions held there were vital to him, and he repeated them to himself whenever he was in doubt over his identity so he knew he hadn't forgotten them—if he had, it meant he was in trouble.

* * *

Severus visited the library to ask Madam Pince if she recognized the statue bust of the man in the photo Hermione had sent him. She examined it and shot him a disdainful look, "You don't know who this is?" She queried, although it seemed more like a pointed comment directed towards his ignorance.

"No," Severus drawled, "Why else would I be asking for your assistance in identifying him?"

She shook her head, "Et tu, Severus? They never taught you Shakespeare coming up the years in muggle primary school?"

"We never made it past 'Romeo & Juliet,' I'm afraid," Severus answered with a small shrug.

With a sigh, Madam Pince led him to a back room in the library, where she'd hidden the muggle literature to keep it from being burned or destroyed by the Carrows. She shuffled through a stack and found the volume she sought, handing it over to him. Severus examined the cover of the volume, "Julius Caesar," and recognized the painting of the man featured on the cover as the same one in Hermione's photo of the statue bust. While he felt relieved to have this confirmation of the man's identity, he still had no inkling of what she meant in writing "minus seven."

"I don't suppose you have any volumes on cryptography in that stack?" He asked, kneading his brow in frustration, as Madam Pince looked fondly upon the volumes of literature, her fondness tempered with sadness over the fact that they were now unfortunately relegated to a storeroom.

"Cryptography?" She repeated, perplexed; she snatched the photo from him once more and examined it more closely. "No, but I believe what you have here is a Caesar cipher, with a shift of seven down the alphabet, so 'G' would become 'X' and so on and so forth." She looked at him curiously as the realization dawned on him, and she pressed her lips in a thin line, saying nothing more—he knew she feared that she had just unknowingly helped him successfully decipher a letter from the Order in furtherance of some illicit purpose, although she couldn't be more wrong.

"Thank you," he murmured to Madam Pince as he strode from the library to return to his private quarters.

With Hermione's letter in hand, he realized the cipher applied to the inverted runic alphabet she utilized in their first exchange. Even with his arduous effort, it took him much longer to decode the latest letter. He'd allowed the raven to enter his chamber, and he now cawed loudly in protest as he perched on the interior windowsill, looking longingly into the night. Severus had even fetched him an owl treat, but he only picked at it and then looked upon it with what looked like the avian equivalent of disgust. Severus sighed and quickly set to work penning his reply to assuage the raven's restlessness.

_Hermione,_

_I was anguished to hear of your plight at the manor. The severity of the effect of the Cruciatus curse depends wholly on the caster, so a sadistic, volatile, and altogether unpredictable witch like Bellatrix casts a formidable curse—one I've also had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of. As for the slur she marked you with, I am capable of brewing potions that can drastically lighten and fade scars, which I will be more than happy to brew for you the first chance I get._

_The Cruciatus is so powerful that it has a halo effect that can linger for days or weeks—jangled nerves and intrusive thoughts and spikes of pain and general malaise. Watch out for it, and do not allow it to overpower you. I've never meant a single killing curse I've cast_ __—I would always channel my guilt and my anger instead of an outright desire to commit murder_ _ ___—__ but I think if I ever get my chance with her, I'll have no trouble there. The plan you write of makes me wary; I understand if you cannot share the details with me, but I must remind you I am a master occlumens._

_Urge Potter to not get reckless—he is crucial to ending this, much as I loathe to admit it. The students are planning an uprising, not-so-quietly. I've reinstated Dolores's decree so that it appears I am against it and aware and monitoring the problem, and while I am monitoring the situation, I'm allowing it to occur without intervention, knowing this group is not reckless—the ones who get caught could be a detriment, and I will make an example of them while the other underground organization is allowed to exist, undeterred._

_The Carrows, simple as they are, remain unaware of its existence and beguiled by their methods of communication. It's rather amusing at times, I must admit. By placing those two here with me, the Dark Lord has played right into our hands. Their penchant for violence and torture and hands on training in the dark arts continues to pose problems, but I must allow them some free reign so they aren't critical of me or suspicious that I am too lenient and inform the Dark Lord, who, thankfully, is so singularly focused on apprehending Potter that he leaves Hogwarts well enough alone much of the time._

_My fellow Death Eaters help our cause more than hurt it as well—although unwittingly; their recent string of failures has occupied the remainder of the Dark Lord's time that isn't spent in pursuit of undesirable number one. Sometimes, as a man on the inside, I wonder why people fear us—they act like a bunch of blundering dunderheaded buffoons at times, but then I think of what Bellatrix has done to you, and then it makes sense._

_I hope that once this war is over that you are able to return to school and live a life of normalcy again, the life of a young adult unfettered by such weighty concerns; you've suffered through enough action for a lifetime, I think. And as pleasant and enticing as your vision of us beyond the veil sounds, I hope that instead you are able to pester and accost and interrogate me face-to-face, in life and in the flesh again one day. Don't let that give you a bigger head than the one you already possess or you'll snap your neck._

_I don't feel brave or deserving of your admiration, but I thank you. You are brave also; do not discount yourself or dwarf yourself in what you perceive to be my shadow. You'll come to learn things about me in time that will put my actions in a different perspective, so hold out for the whole story before you make any judgments—positive or negative. I hope you will inform me of your plan; I will help you by any means at my disposal—and I have more means than you know or could even imagine, so do not underestimate my offer, Hermione, please._

_Severus_

A week prior to the commencement of their plan, Hermione received Severus's letter. She snuck out of the cottage to sit in the garden under the stars, where the scent of sea lavender calmed her. She'd been so moved by his last letter; each time she read it her heart swelled and her stomach clenched in a form of anticipation—even though she already knew what it said. Although Severus never explicitly stated it, Hermione could tell he was growing fond of her in his protectiveness of her and that he respected her.

Severus had seemed to adopt the role of her mentor, dispensing invaluable advice, but she could tell it was more than that, with subtle hints of his affection for her—he cared for her, which made her happy—positively elated—although she wasn't sure exactly how he cared for her, whether he looked at her like a daughter or simply a friend…or something deeper. She found herself thinking about Severus more and more frequently. His simple wish that she could again lead a normal life was touching, as was his acknowledgment of her vision of them in the future and his mutually expressed interest in the same.

Hermione found herself thinking things that were out of character for her and holding them distantly at bay, although before she'd been a person who would never fail or refuse to follow a thought. Her admiration for Severus had seemed to grow and change into something else, something affectionate and warm, something that scared her. When she wrote her replies to his letters, she had to censor herself against doting on him in a superfluous way, although that was how she felt. She found herself sneaking into Harry and Ron's room at night to borrow the marauders' map so that she could watch his footsteps and name placard to make sure he was alive and alright.

She often saw him pacing late at night when neither one of them should've been awake at all. Whenever she would spot Tom Riddle's name she'd be overcome with panic and anxiety—had he found out about Severus's true loyalty? She watched him walk the grounds at night alone and put herself in his headspace, imagining herself there with him—wondering if by some magic he could feel the warmth of her thinking about him.

To her surprise, she refused to further analyze these thoughts, although she had a feeling that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. She wondered if she would live to see another night sky or spend another day writing him or being with him after their attempt to rob Gringotts—the heavy thought that she could die in their attempt to retrieve the Hufflepuff cup seemed to sink her stomach like a weight that also pressed on her chest. She looked towards Dobby's headstone, bright white in the moonlight, and her mind gave way to grim thoughts of worms and dirt and decay and the likely fact that nothing existed after the finality of death.

She closed her eyes against those thoughts, focusing on composing her reply to Severus, tinged with its own sense of finality—she approached it as if this were her last chance to get a message to him—a Hail Mary of sorts. She went back and forth about how much she should divulge about the way she had begun to feel towards him—certainly no irrevocable declarations of love, if God forbid that's what this was. She decided to write her heart out now and heavily edit later if need be—although in the end, she left it as it was.

_Severus,_

_Thank you for offering to brew a potion to help rid me of my scar, but I think I'll pass—not because I don't appreciate your offer immensely, because I do, but because I consider it a battle scar, one I will wear proudly to put her hatred on display and demonstrate my triumph over it. If I seek to erase it, all I will be doing is reacting out of shame, shame of the truth of the word itself, but I am not ashamed of my blood status, I am proud. However, it may cease to matter either way when we set our plan in motion—if I didn't think you'd attempt to intervene if you knew how insane our plan really was, I would tell you now._

_If the plan fails and results in the loss of my life, I hope that you will do something for me—there's a book among my belongings, given to me by Dumbledore: "The Tales of Beetle the Bard." There's also a notebook among my possessions, in which I've translated most of the runic text into English, save for one or two stories. Complete it for me and seek to have it published—I want to leave some positive impact on the world, some contribution other than just being Harry Potter's friend. Proclaim its co-authorship and do not hide that you helped me, please, if the situation allows for it._

_I will be eternally grateful if you carry out this wish for me, and I know in my heart you will try if you're at all able to do so. Disregard all this funereal stuff if I survive—I wish I could say that I believed that outcome to be the most likely, but I truly don't know. I've thought a lot about death lately, and I've come to terms mostly with what that means, but some things give me so much grief. I grieve for the adult life I'll never get to live in full, the books I'll never get to read, the things I'll never get to learn and experience, the friends I'll never get to grow up with; I'll never see my parents again in life, and because I obliviated them, they will die not knowing they ever had a daughter who they loved more than anything—I prefer it that way, though, because they won't have to grieve for me and experience the things that are proving so troubling to me right now, nor will they have to wrestle with the questions I'm fighting._

_I mourn for the world that will likely remain in turmoil if I fail in my pursuit, because then Harry will likely die as well. The thought of ceasing to exist is impossible for me to grasp—my entire life has been lived inside my head, and I have so many thoughts that the thought of having none is terrifying to me. The silence I'll be unable to hear after the final synapse fires in my brain and I enter non-existence... I will be nothing and I will be everything, no longer sentient yet living vicariously through the universe itself—we are all stardust. I will be stardust. I can't fathom it—going from one to being part of oneness itself._

_And what of souls? Is there some great transmigration that I'm too entrenched in logic and reason to foresee—is the evidence of intelligent design right in front of my eyes, yet I fail to see it? I never believed that magic could exist and yet it does? Am I being smart or foolish? There are worse things that death—seeing or experiencing the death of my loved ones, for instance. What scares me in death is what scares me in life—not knowing the answers, the monolithic unknown. I think therefore I am…it would follow that if I no longer think, I no longer am. I no longer am…_

_If life is just fleeting, merely seventeen trips around the sun in the face of infinite time and space, what is the point of having lived at all, when it seems like your life was of no consequence or import either way? Existence is so fleeting, yet non-existence is never-ending. Death is the ultimate equalizer—it doesn't matter if you lived a long, happy life or a short, sad or miserable life or any other variation of life, when we die and our brain shuts down, it doesn't matter, never really mattered, because neither will remember without consciousness, so it might as well have never happened at all. I'm spiraling here, I know. I just have so many questions…questions about questions, questions about never being able to ask questions again._

_I'm sorry, thank you, if you're still reading, still with me. I'm having an existential crisis, yet I'm so grateful that I exist to even have a crisis about existence. I hope I live to see a thousand more beautiful night skies, like the one twinkling at me as I write to you tonight, although even if that happens, I have a feeling I'll never get any closer to answering those fundamental questions about the nature of existence. Sometimes, the fact that it doesn't matter, will cease to matter, never mattered, and only the matter I'm made of will remain or matter is comforting to me._

_Sometimes, I hope that there exists a multiverse, where my life will make a million separate, subtle changes in course that lead to a million separate, subtle changes to my fate—the thought that my consciousness won't cease to exist, it will exist infinitely in an infinite number of ways as I use my depth of experience to find the answers; even if I can't relay them all to one ultimate self, the thought of unraveling the secrets of the universe at all is dizzyingly exhilarating, even though they will never form a coherent web of thought._

_What do you think happens when we die, Severus? As a fellow intellectual, are you bothered by these questions as strongly as I am? I hope against hope I'll be able to read your answers. Lastly though… I mourn for the fact that I only started getting to know you, the real you, so close to the end. I feel like I have so much more to learn from you, and that gives me hope, because something inside me tells me that our friendship isn't over, that I will continue to learn things from you. Just a feeling._

" _The last long lap is the hardest…_

_And the rest is rust and stardust."_

_Hermione_

She gazed up to the stars sparkling like a suspended scattering of crystals thrown against a velvet curtain of blue and wondered about the vastness of the universe, comforted by the fact that they were under the same sky and would eventually both become a part of it.


	7. Veritas

**VII. Veritas**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Severus sat in his office, about to begin deciphering Hermione's latest letter, when he heard a knock at the door. After shuffling papers around to conceal it, he cleared his throat and projected his voice so the visitor would be able to hear him from the other side of the heavy oak door, "Enter."

He immersed himself in pretending to work on another letter, one of lesser interest to anyone with an inclination to snoop and scrutinize the papers atop his desk, so his head was down when he heard the doorknob turn and the sound of tentative footsteps entering the office. Severus set his quill aside and looked up to see Madam Pomfrey standing near the threshold, looking all around her in an apparent attempt to process the minimalist makeover of Dumbledore's office.

"Poppy," Severus addressed her impassively as he sat back in the headmaster's chair, resting his steepled fingers against his chin.

Unsurely, Poppy approached his desk, greeting him with a polite nod, "Severus." A weariness dulled her usually bright blue eyes, and they appeared quite tired even as she held them wide; tendrils of gray hair curled from underneath her peaked cap, and her lips were pressed together in a thin line, her usually rosy face flushed more fiercely than usual from sheer exhaustion.

Severus knew the hospital wing had been understaffed and constantly overrun with the Carrows' victims; it pained him to see Poppy in that state, as she had always tended to him with kindness and discretion whenever the marauder's antics would send him her way or when he would arrive at school bearing injuries from home. In his adult life, they'd enjoyed a friendly relationship, and she'd cared for him after Fluffy had mangled his leg and when Hermione and company had rendered him concussed by the force of their triple disarmament, so seeing her presently regard him with such fear cut him in a way he hadn't expected.

"I need to request a short leave of absence," she stated quietly, nervously fiddling with her hourglass pin as she spoke.

"Why?" he drawled, tapping his fingers.

Poppy shifted on her feet, "A family emergency," she said finally—Severus did not need to use legilimency to determine that she'd just told him a lie; he spotted a tell in her vagueness and in the way she refused to meet his eye, although that could also be affected by her fear. Severus remained silent, waiting for her to speak up with clarification or plant her feet where said lie was concerned.

When she did neither, he rested his elbows on the desk and looked up at her, "Have a seat." Severus conjured a chair directly across from him, which made Poppy jump in surprise before she realized the innocuous gesture and sat down, smoothing her white apron. "When do you require this _leave of absence_?" Severus asked.

Poppy appeared reluctant to speak; he regarded her coldly with the quirk of an eyebrow. She swallowed and said finally, "T-tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Severus repeated before she finished, purposefully emphasizing his disbelief at the suddenness of her request.

Poppy stared past him to Dumbledore's portrait as the former headmaster awoke from a nap in his chair. "Poppy! How lovely to see you," Albus exclaimed warmly.

"Likewise, Albus," a genuine smile spread across her face and to her tired eyes, before she turned to look at Severus again, seemingly emboldened by the presence of the man whose leadership kept Hogwarts a safe haven until his death. Severus looked over his shoulder with a fleeting glance that reeked of annoyance. "Injury and sickness don't always adhere to our timetables," Poppy replied in clipped tones, "certainly not mine," she added bitingly.

"How long will you be away from your post?" Severus inquired.

"No more than three days, likely less," she answered, leading Severus to wonder what sort of illness failed to adhere to a timetable yet had such a predictable and short course.

"Do you have a suitable stand-in for the time being?"

"Maybe if you'd consent to call off your dogs, I wouldn't require one," Poppy countered pointedly.

"I am not at liberty to restrict them entirely; jointly occupying the position of deputy headmaster entitles them to some authority that even I cannot revoke or override," Severus explained, bristling. "I have already stripped them of many of the privileges once available to them and barred them from using some of their most cruel and unorthodox methods. It's not as if I have taken no definitive action in these matters."

"Whether you have authority over them or not, they should be stopped," Poppy argued. Severus wished she could see he was agreeing with her in a roundabout way, the only way he could communicate the fact that he concurred.

"Can you at least give me the names of some other healers I may contact?" Severus asked.

"I made some contacts when I transferred to St. Mungo's, and I have had many offers from students to volunteer," Poppy replied, passing him a parchment.

"At least vet the students first. Don't let Longbottom near any patient you wish to remain alive," he eyed her grimly.

She looked at him the way she used to when he would ignore her instructions or attempt to exit the hospital wing without her clearance or permission, before searching his eyes for any hint of what happened to the man she knew before.

"You may go now," Severus gestured towards the door, and she stood up, bidding farewell to Albus and ignoring Severus before making a quick exit. "Poppy," Severus called out, burying his head in his hands for a moment before she turned around, "I hope your family member makes a quick recovery."

He watched her chin draw back in surprise before she gave him another polite nod and shut the door; he hoped she hadn't mistaken his botched attempt at courtesy as more sarcasm. He buried his head in his hands again.

"Don't fret, Severus," came Albus's voice.

"If perhaps next time I'm meeting with a member of the faculty, you could refrain from announcing yourself, I would very much appreciate it," Severus groaned into his hands.

"Why is that?" Albus asked, perplexed.

"Because, Albus, it undermines the little authoritative presence I do have—I am not their headmaster, you are. They wish their view were unobstructed my presence, that they were facing and answering to you. If you inevitably pipe in, then they're not very likely to listen to me or respect me. They already don't like me."

"I never knew you to care about whether anyone liked or disliked you, Severus," remarked Albus thoughtfully.

"It was one thing to be hated for who I was, quite another to be hated for who I pretend to be. I always instilled a healthy amount of fear in my students, but my colleagues…I suppose I took for granted the modicum of respect they held for me and the distant cordiality we shared," Severus admitted.

"Just remember the greater good, Severus. In the end, you will have earned their full respect and admiration."

Albus's pithy pathos and twinkling wisdom rang hollow for Severus, and he countered, "What little good it will do me when I am dead."

"You mustn't allow yourself to think that way," cautioned Albus.

"I exert so much control over my words, it's impossible to do the same with my thoughts without occlumency, and I can't very well occlude myself, as tempting as that prospect sounds," Severus grabbed his quill and flipped through his papers until he found Hermione's letter and rolled it up where Dumbledore couldn't see it, retreating to his personal quarters for a bit before dinner in the Great Hall.

"Good evening, Severus."

The way Dumbledore cheerfully bade him farewell only added to his annoyance. He nodded curtly and shut the door.

After dinner, Severus proceeded down the corridor, passing a group of students congregating and conversing in hushed tones. "Tonk's is having her baby in the next few days," Luna began, failing to heed her friends' aggressive gestures, swiping their index fingers across their throats and covering their mouths to alert her of Severus's approach. Unlike her friends, Luna seemed to lack any sense or awareness of her surroundings. When Luna finally registered his presence, she appeared totally unfazed. "Oops," she said plainly in a way that made Severus stifle a snort.

Severus paused, looking down at them for a moment, before continuing down the hall, pretending he hadn't heard her. Now, he understood the reason for Poppy's request for a leave of absence; with Lupin's status as a wanted man, his options for obstetric care for his wife were likely limited, and he and Poppy always shared a congenial relationship, since she took the role of his caretaker, leading him to the willow every month in secret.

When Severus retired to his quarters that night, he sat at his desk and made quick work of deciphering Hermione's latest letter. Some of the translated bits he registered caused him alarm, so he finished swiftly and began to read it in full. When he reached the end, he read the last line with wide eyes, and his hands trembled slightly. The thought of Hermione ceasing to exist, never pestering him endlessly with questions ever again, caused him such unease and palpable fear that it even rivaled Hermione's own fear of her supposedly imminent demise.

The rest of the night he spent lying awake in his bed, attempting to think of a way to get in touch with her, face-to-face, but he'd seemingly exhausted all his options. Although she'd given him clues as to their whereabouts, he did not know for certain; plus, he had presumably never been to the location in question, likely rendering apparating there impossible anyway, and he assumed with near certainty that the Order had placed it under the protection of the Fidelius Charm, severely restricting his options until none seemed to remain. Still, he continued to wrack his brain until morning, when his options seemed just as limited. In his restlessness, he began his familiar ritual of pacing the floor.

After a time, Severus brought a chair to the window, where he slumped with his arms crossed on its sill. He scanned the grounds, his eyes sweeping over the black lake sparkling in the pale morning light, the craggy cliffs, and the silhouette of the forbidden forest growing clearer all the time. When he noticed the thin crescent moon fading away in the pinkish light of morning, he found himself unable to look away. His brain insisted there was meaning there. Then, his sleepy thoughts drifted to the subject of lunar charts as he tried to calculate the date of the next full moon. _Full moon._ Suddenly, Severus sat bolt upright—an absolutely insane idea occurred to him, but he decided to trust in the old saying, “it’s so insane, it just might work!”

His realized that Lupin would certainly know Hermione's whereabouts, and it was on this assumption alone that he based his plan. Severus threw on his frock coat, buttoning it hastily—mis-aligning it three times—jumped into his trousers, and wrestled on his boots as he held her letter in one hand and skimmed it again. He leapt down the stairs two at a time and rounded the corner, his cloak swooping behind him, only to come skittering to a stop when he found himself face-to-face with Amycus Carrow.

"Where you 'eaded in such a 'urry, 'eadmaster?" he asked. For once, Severus found himself at a loss for words, and the ensuing panic only added to his sense of urgency. Amycus tapped his foot, awaiting answer, and Severus hoped his practiced scowling countenance was holding.

He searched his mind for something that could win his trust, something he could identify with, "Those students who attempted to steal something valuable from my office are at it again. I'm following a lead."

He watched Amycus's eyes light up at the thought of potential students who needed to be taught a lesson, "Who are they 'eadmaster? I'm sure I can get 'em to spill it."

Severus didn't even try to hide his look of disgust, merely transmuting it, "You think you are more likely to attain a confession that I? I was interrogating blood traitors since before you were born, Amycus. These matters do not concern you." Severus squared his shoulders and strode past him, keeping a deliberately brisk yet even pace until he reached a deserted corridor, where he broke into a run, the sound of his boots clattering rapidly on stone echoing loudly through the hall and his head.

Severus prayed that Poppy had not yet departed, and he dashed up the stairs to the hospital wing, resuming his normal gait whenever he heard students approaching, attempting to unsuccessfully conceal the fact that he was out of breath, as they regarded him curiously. Once he reached the hospital wing, he paused to lean against the wall, doubled over, hands on his knees.

After taking a few seconds to catch his breath, he straightened and brushed off his robes before entering. Poppy moved the tip of her quill down a list of names on a clipboard to the stand-in nurse by her side, detailing the condition and care of each student. He silently thanked the heavens that Poppy took her position so seriously and that she was so thorough in her evaluations and practices.

Severus looked around at the beds filled with students suffering from various injuries and ailments; the conscious ones all stared at him with wide eyes, alarmed at his presence in their sanctuary, where he rarely, if ever, made an appearance.

Noticing the worried state of her patients, Poppy looked up from her clipboard at Severus, narrowing her eyes. "Can I help you, Severus?" she asked coldly.

"I merely wanted to make the acquaintance of your replacement," he lied, inclining his head towards the plump witch who stood beside her, whose eyes had also widened at the mention of his name.

"Um, Nurse Florence, this is our headmaster, Severus Snape, Severus this is Nurse Florence," she gestured between them, and they stared at each other for a moment before Severus reluctantly outstretched his hand which she shook just as reluctantly.

"Okay, well, you seem to have this under control. If you have any questions or concerns, please see me and not the Carrows, regardless of their statements to the contrary. Carry on."

"The Carrows?" the nurse whispered to Poppy questioningly as Severus left the room, leading Severus to deduce that Poppy had neglected to tell her about the Carrows.

Severus burst into his office and ripped open the memory cabinet.

"Where are you going, Severus?" Dumbledore asked with cheerful curiosity.

Severus grabbed the pensieve from the cabinet and set it on his desk, where he pointed his wand at it and cried, "Diminuendo." The pensieve shrank to the size of a stone, and Severus thrust it into his pocket.

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, eyeing Severus above the frames of his glasses with a look that negated even having to ask another question. Severus stopped and leveled with him, "Albus, I can not tell you. But I need you to do something for me, please."

Severus's addled state seemed to worry Albus, "You can not put yourself in danger, Severus. It's not yet the time to reveal the secret to Harry."

"Albus," Severus's voice was strained, "I am not simply your pawn. If you trust me, _trust me._ I remain a person—a shell of a person, but still a person, with the ability to form attachments. I have wants and needs, and I want you to stop asking questions, and I need you to do this for me. I've gone out on a limb for you more times than I have time to or care to recount, without any information other than your assurances. Please, do this for me."

Albus took a contemplative pause before finally asking, "What is it that you wish me to do, Severus?"

"Answer the following honestly, as if I am not me, but an interviewer asking you to recount my actions," Severus instructed.

Albus appeared perplexed, but he nodded.

"Is Severus Snape working for the Dark Lord?" Severus asked.

"No," Dumbledore paused, thrown off by the strangeness of what they were doing, "Severus Snape has been loyal to the Order of the Phoenix since before the first fall of Voldermort."

 _"Don't say his name,"_ Severus hissed as the dark mark seared his skin, "Without divulging the details, did he murder you in cold blood?"

"No, Severus acted as I asked him to, expressing to me many reservations prior to committing the unforgivable curse that ended my life," answered Dumbledore.

"Do trust Severus Snape still?" Severus asked, with a hint of his own question.

"Yes, without question."

"Thank you, Albus," Severus sighed, pressing the tip of his wand to his head to extract the memory of their "interview," placing the white wisp into a vial. "I will return within the next few days, Albus," Severus shouted as he shut the door behind him, failing to notice how pale Albus had grown at those last few words.

Severus bolted down the stairs to the Dungeons, blowing past Slughorn without explanation. "Severus?!" He asked, although it sounded more like an exclamation. Slamming the door of the storeroom in his face, Severus turned in every direction and cursed Slughorn's atypical organizational system. Finally, he found the supply of Wolfsbane he sought—he'd brewed it at the Dark Lord's insistence, to reign in Fenrir when his blood lust spiraled out of control—when it led Fenrir to not discriminate between the blood of their own and the blood of their enemies. Severus grabbed twelve vials and rearranged some others behind them to make it appear as if they'd not been touched.

Slughorn stepped into the room, unable to disguise his air of suspicion when he asked, "Severus, can I help you find anything?"

"Veritaserum," Severus blurted, as it was conversely the first thing that came to mind when he needed to lie.

"You're looking in the wrong place," Slughorn plucked a vial from a shelf on the opposite side of the room; Severus strode to him and swiped it from his grasp before exiting without a word.

He took several shortcuts to exit the castle, surprised he could keep such a quick pace when he felt like he couldn't and wasn't breathing. When he reached the grounds, he could feel his heartbeat in his ears, and he hoped no students were looking out the windows to see their headmaster hurtling across the grounds. He passed the burnt shell of Hagrid's hut with a pang of shame and knew that he was almost there.

He waited near the apparition point, out of sight, for Poppy's arrival, gathering the courage to go through with the plan he'd so hastily formulated. Finally, at twilight, he peered over the rock wall he'd crouched behind and saw her making her way across the grounds. Severus took a series of deep breaths, each one making him feel strangely crazier than the last.

When Poppy had nearly reached the boundary wall, Severus gripped his wand and jumped to his feet, pointing his wand at her, "Imperio." Poppy's face, which had flashed with a look of shock, now held a serene and far-away expression. "You will allow me to accompany you to see Remus Lupin. You will forget that I instructed you to do this, just as you will forget that I accompanied you in the first place," Severus instructed quietly but firmly.

Poppy nodded slowly, and she took Severus's arm and wordlessly disapparated them. When Severus felt his feet make contact with the ground again, he looked around him. For a moment, he wondered if they'd landed in Cokeworth—they appeared to be in a defunct part of a city on a mostly deserted stretch of road, with only a few lights on in the buildings looming above. A police siren sounded in the distance, and dogs barked in answer.

Realizing that Poppy had already begun meandering up the street, Severus hurried to follow after her. A lone house sat between two urban dwellings of the ones surrounding it, as if the city had grown up around it. Poppy unhitched a chain-link gate and climbed the steps to the porch, and now that Severus knew which house, he lifted the curse. Poppy shook her head, looking perplexed, before she knocked on the door and Lupin ushered her inside.

Severus ducked into the alleyway between the house and the tenement hall next to it, where he leaned against the brick wall and rehearsed what he planned to say to Lupin. Hermione had been easier—at least he could count on her compassion. The fact that he would show up at Lupin's door around the time his wife went into labor would add paternal instincts to the fray; a Death Eater would suffer the instinctual impulse to decimate the threat to his wife and child. Severus closed his eyes and hit his head back against the wall a few times in frustration and hopelessness.

Hours later, Severus's head lolled forward as he fell asleep, but he snapped awake at hearing the squeak and clash of a screen door. Severus pressed himself flat against the wall and looked toward the street, where he saw Lupin. Adrenaline drove him forward as he pursued Lupin until they were far enough away from the house that their voices wouldn't carry.

"Expelliarmus!" Severus cried, and the wand Lupin clutched beneath his robes arced through the air to Severus's free hand. Lupin recognized his voice and looked over his shoulder, his stance like that of prey in a predator's sights. "Remus, I need to speak with you. I'm not going to hurt you, and I can prove it. Severus shouted.

Slowly, Lupin turned to face him, and Severus could see the thoughts racing behind his eyes—if he didn't hear what Severus had to say, Severus now knew where he, his wife, and soon his child were staying, and he had little means to fight.

Cautiously, he walked towards Severus, "What are you doing here?"

"I need you're assistance. Is there somewhere we can talk?" Severus asked, looking around him; his baser instincts urged him to simply use legilimency and get it over with, but his conscience stopped him.

They sat at café table on the patio of a restaurant, abandoned at that time of night. The city seemed eerily lifeless, to the point where Severus wondered if anyone inhabited it at all. Severus withdrew the stone-sized pensieve and performed a silent engorgement charm, and in the circle of ice blue light emitting from the tip of his wand, it returned to its normal size.

Lupin watched on, fidgeting uncomfortably and nervously tugging on his sleeves, looking disheveled and nauseous. Withdrawing the vial, Severus poured the its contents into the pensieve, which then swirled with a miasma of watery memory mist. "Look," he urged, gesturing toward the pensieve. Apprehensively, Lupin pressed his face into basin. While Lupin watched the memory, Severus mentally crossed his fingers, hoping the memory of his impromptu interview with Albus would provide him with sufficient proof that he had no ulterior motive in trying to locate Hermione.

When Lupin tumbled out of the pensieve, he stared at Severus as he attempted to process the implications of what he'd just seen. "How do I know that you weren't questioning Dumbledore under duress?" Lupin asked slowly, suspicion apparent in his tone.

"Can one interrogate or hold a portrait under duress? If so, I have one portrait in particular I wish to try it on." Severus replied in reference to Phineas; his sarcastic defense mechanism did little to put Lupin at ease.

"What are you here to ask of me?" Remus asked, his voice strained with fear.

Realizing that their encounter was not progressing well, he played his next card. "Before I tell you, I wish to make you an offer," he set a vial of Wolfsbane on the table, and Lupin's eyes glimmered with envy when he laid eyes on the cerulean blue potion, which had a botanical drawing of aconite on its label. "If you assist me, I will brew you your monthly Wolfsbane for as long as I am able to and have access to the necessary ingredients, with a year's supply up front," Severus offered, watching the indecision in Lupin's eyes. "I know that you are unable to afford it, with most unwilling to hire a man infected with lycanthropy—and a fugitive on top of that."

Remus opened his mouth to speak, but ultimately refrained, eyes still fixed on the vial in front of him. Severus tried another tactic, "Above all, this will help ensure the safety of your child, Remus. With it, you will not be a danger to him."

"I dread your answer, but again, what do you wish to ask of me?" Lupin said weakly, struggling over what to do, still covetously eyeing the vial.

"I need you to take me to Hermione Granger. I am certain you know where they are hiding," Severus braved, hoping his offer would sway him even if he didn't trust the memory.

Lupin pushed the vial away, and stood, his chair raking the concrete. "No," his answer came in curt staccato. "And how do I know it's not poison anyway?"

"I realize potions were never your strong suit, but you are well acquainted with this potion, well acquainted with the fact that even the tiniest addition of an extraneous ingredient will ruin and contaminate the entire thing, changing its distinct coloring and taste beyond recognition. You couldn't even add sugar to it, if you recall."

Obviously swayed by Severus's logical points, Lupin gravitated toward the vial again like a moth to a flame, its reflection shining in his eyes. Still, he refused. "No," he repeated quietly, "And why do you wish to see her?"

"I realize the strangeness of my request, and I will admit to having treated her vilely in the past. I am overcome with regret for that; she did not deserve it…"

"Why do you wish to see her?" Remus repeated firmly.

Severus hesitated, "I can not tell you. It's vital that I do so, though."

"Are you going to kill me if I refuse? Threaten my family? _My son?_ " Lupin asked shakily, instinctively searching his pockets for the wand that Severus still had in his possession.

"Of course not," Severus scoffed, "Are you that dense? I've just shown you the proof—I am not working for the Dark Lord."

"Then why do you still call him the Dark Lord?" Lupin retorted, raising his voice.

"Because, the taboo charm remains in force," Severus snapped, jerking up his sleeve to reveal the mark, "And if I dare say his name, this flares excruciatingly."

"I can't help you," Lupin whispered resolutely, forcibly ripping his gaze away from the Wolfsbane.

Hoping its removal would prompt him to reconsider, Severus reached for the vial and placed it in his pocket, where he felt the bottle of Veritaserum he'd taken from Slughorn to avoid suspicion, and an even more insane idea occurred to him. "Wait," Severus said quietly, shaking the vial at him.

"What's that?" Lupin asked, intrigued.

"Veritaserum, the truth potion," Severus admitted, and Lupin's mouth fell open. "I will take enough for ten minutes worth of questions, and it will ensure that I answer them honestly."

Lupin took his seat again and nodded, curiosity clear upon his face. Severus reluctantly tilted the vial to his lips, drinking about a teaspoon of it the thin liquid. "When does it take effect?"

"Immediately," Severus winced at its sickly-saccharine taste, "Go."

"Why did you kill professor Dumbledore?"

"He had arranged it, so that Draco would be spared the repercussions," Severus coughed, words forming of their own volition.

"Why did he keep it a secret from us all?" Lupin followed, rapid-fire.

"If Potter knew, he would have attempted to stop it, blowing my cover and putting himself in a precarious position," Severus answered.

"Why do you wish to meet with Hermione? You loathe her, don't you?"

"No, Remus," the words rose in his throat like bile, and he couldn't suppress them, "On the contrary. I care for her a great deal."

Remus paused and stared at him before he shook himself and pressed on, "How on earth did you even become reacquainted?"

"Dumbledore sent me to deliver her a vial of phoenix tears, in case she or Potter received another bite from the Dark Lord's snake."

"And one meeting led to this mad endeavor?" Lupin asked incredulously.

"She wrote to me. We kept up a secret correspondence," Severus answered, breathing hard as the words were forcibly ripped from his throat, leaving it almost sore.

"When you say that you care for her a great deal, what exactly does that mean?"

Severus swallowed against the words choking out of him, "It means…it means…I think I am in love with her, Remus. I can not stop thinking about her, worrying about her, hell, even dreaming about her. She is incredibly bright and precocious and talented and exceedingly lovely, and she has her entire future spread before her, and I will keep it that way or die in the attempt, but she cannot know I feel this way. She can never know. If she were to reciprocate my affections, which I realize is highly unlikely, it would put her in terrible danger, potential leverage for the Dark Lord to wield over me. To break me by breaking her." Severus covered his mouth, although it felt somewhat liberating to say the words, as if it somehow made it real.

Remus regarded him with a look of pity, which angered him, although not as much as his patronizing tone when he said, "Severus, I can't condone your feelings for her."

"Oh, you can't, can't you? Nymphadora is only a few years older. Don't get self-righteous, Remus. You have no right," Severus snapped, and then a realization dawned on him, "It's just because it's me, isn't it? 'Snivellus' doesn't deserve her, and while that's true, it is besides the point. I always had a tenuous respect for you—you didn't join them," he spat, referencing the marauders, "you were merely an unfortunate victim of the bystander effect, yet your inherent superiority complex remains. You fail to realize that we are not so different; we are both products of our circumstances. The shame you feel over your lycanthropy, the way people look at you with disdain—I receive the same for being a death eater."

Lupin looked away, "You hardly know her."

"I'm living testament to the fact that we can never truly know someone."

Lupin's silence and indecision enraged him.

"I will sit here all night, I will drink this entire vial, until you are satisfied enough with my answers to take me to her, how does that sound?" Severus snarled.

"Why are you spying for us, for the Order? Why put yourself in mortal danger every day for a cause you seem lukewarm about?" Lupin asked angrily.

"It was Lily…it was always about Lily, until it wasn't... It's about Hermione now too. She is muggle-born, just as Lily was. She deserves a world where she can live without fear of persecution," Severus whispered.

"What made you start to care for her?" Remus asked, more out of curiosity than a desire to interrogate him further.

"In addition to all her other positive traits? She was kind to me," he said plaintively. Lupin appeared saddened by his simple statement, and he put a hand on Severus's shoulder as he buried his head in his hands, "You could ruin me with 1/16th of the information I've given you, and then there's the debasement over even having to turn to you in the first place."

"I'm sorry, Severus. I'm sorry I doubted you," Lupin said softly. "I always defended you, up until you murdered Dumbledore, but I suppose there were signs of your enduring loyalty that I willfully ignored." Severus said nothing. "I will take you to her, after my child is born. I was going to make a trip to see them to make the announcement anyway. I must return to be with Dora, but if you stay hidden, you can wait for me inside."

Severus nodded, thrusting the bag of Wolfsbane into Lupin's hand, suddenly rendered mute by having had to lay himself bare, after having the truth forced out of him. He followed Lupin back to the house, where no one was awake.

"Dora and Poppy are upstairs. Stay in here. We hardly use this room," Lupin instructed. After shutting the door behind him, Severus slid down it limply like a rag doll, feeling dizzy and forcibly suppressing the urge to vomit. He cast a muffling charm around himself; although he cried silently, he had no wish to hear Tonks in labor. He lay on the floor, drawing his cloak around himself as a makeshift blanket, and tried to get some sleep, but he spent much of the night staring at the wall, fighting with his self-loathing—the Veritaserum not only forced him to be honest with Lupin, it also forced him to be honest with himself, and the stark truth disquieted him.


	8. Playing with Fire

**VIII. Playing with Fire**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

The next day, Severus rotated between sitting in the small room and pacing it, essentially held in quarantine with his neuroses. Lupin brought him breakfast and checked in with him periodically; upon reflection, Lupin seemed remorseful for his behavior the night before, and he tried to make it up to him by displaying a gentle kindness towards him that seemed just a tad overzealous. Severus understood that he was unsure how to even regard him in light of all he knew now, so he accepted it without comment.

Finally, late in the evening, Lupin opened the door a crack to let Severus know that he was ready to depart, and Severus climbed out the window to meet him, silently overjoyed to no longer be trapped with his only his thoughts for company.

"I have a son!" Lupin proclaimed proudly, laughing as he clapped Severus heartily on the back, causing him to startle. Severus managed a small smile, which seemed unconvincing when paired with his drained appearance, the dark circles around his eyes forming a raccoon-like mask.

"Congratulations," he murmured, but Lupin hardly seemed to register his half-hearted tone as he blissfully replied, "Thank you!"

After walking a ways from the house, Lupin stopped and asked, "Are you ready, Severus?"

Severus nodded and handed Lupin a small piece of folded parchment, "Give this to her. I will wait outside, someplace where I will not be spotted," he instructed before taking Lupin's arm so they could utilize side-along apparition.

Just as Hermione had described in her letter, he found himself on a span of sandy beach near a lone cottage. "I will return in an hour or two," whispered Lupin, still smiling like he couldn't help it. Under cover of darkness, Severus sat in wait, listening to the jovial sounds that grew progressively louder and more boisterous with every uncorking that came from inside the house.

"Hermione," Lupin asked, motioning for her to join him in the kitchen, "Can I speak with you privately for a moment?"

"What is it Professor?" She asked, concerned. Lupin had told her that she could call him by his name, since he hadn't been her professor in years, but she'd never taken to it. Furtively, he slipped the parchment into her hand, before pouring himself another glass of wine, "I must say, I was surprised to learn that you're associating with him."

"Him?" She asked, suddenly panic-stricken.

"Severus. He seems to have an unhealthy amount of interest in you. Be careful, Hermione. You're playing with fire," Lupin warned.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione crossed her arms and turned to walk away.

"Really? Because I received a rather startling visit from him last night, and he seems to think otherwise," Lupin countered.

Hermione froze, mouth agape, and she returned to the kitchen to stand by Lupin's side; she hurriedly unfolded the parchment to read it, "He's here?!" She gasped, beaming.

Lupin regarded her with a sad smile, "Oh dear, I know that look."

"What look?" Hermione demanded, narrowing her eyes.

"Dora. When she fancied me, but I remained too ignorant to see it."

"We are friends," Hermione seethed.

"Friends," Lupin echoed wistfully.

After an awkward pause where they each refused to look the other in the eye, Lupin continued, "Hermione. I too find Severus's actions noble; with that said, he is a deeply troubled, tempestuous person, and it's not wise to enter into some sort of relationship with him. It could put you in grave danger. You are brilliant, and I trust your judgment, but I have no wish to see you get hurt, emotionally or otherwise."

"Thank you for your concern, Professor. Please, don't repeat a word of this to anyone," she pled as she shot a referential look at Harry and Ron, who were shooting she and Lupin curious glances in return.

"You have my word—unless you are in some sort of danger that necessitates my full disclosure," Lupin replied, smiling fondly at her before striding over to catch up with Harry and Ron.

Finally, Severus heard the occupants bidding farewell to their friend upon his departure, and once he heard the door swing shut, he stood up, his legs aching from sitting so long. Lupin approached him, "Okay, Severus, don't cross me. I believe you, but if you've lived a lie for this long, it must come quite naturally for you."

"Remus, I have put myself in dire straits by telling you all that I have," Severus reminded him. Listing slightly with the effect of the drink he'd imbibed that night, Lupin smiled.

Severus was ready with a retort when Lupin finally spoke, "Funny, Severus. I think that, in another life, we'd have been fast friends."

"How touching," Severus quipped.

Lupin's smile only broadened, "You've proven yourself braver than I thought. If anyone called you 'Snivellus' now, I'd surely hex them."

At the mention of his maligned moniker, Severus crossed his arms and regarded him coldly.

Lupin laughed, "I deserve that. Now, I'd best be getting home. I miss the little lad already. I gave her the message. Brilliant young witch—I've always admired her; do be kind to her."

"I have done," Severus replied quietly.

"Goodbye, Severus," Lupin outstretched his hand, and Severus stared at it for a long moment before returning the gesture and shaking it in kind.

Waving farewell, Lupin turned and walked a few paces, where he disapparated with a pop, leaving Severus alone with only his thoughts once again.

Severus walked along the beach as the waves climbed towards the moon that shone brightly in the sky, its light glinting on bits of sea glass in the dark. He walked until the cottage had been reduced to a small trinity of lights in the distance and sat upon a bit of driftwood, waiting for her to emerge from the house; he looked out over the sea and up to the stars which reflected in the roiling water to make one infinite cosmos of water and sky, the immensity of it threatening to swallow him up. He watched the lighted windows go out, one by one, until the house was completely dark and silent.

An hour later, he saw a bluish-white sphere of light bobbing up and down, floating like a will-o'-the-wisp in the dark, and he knew its source—it was wand-light. Severus froze and smoothed the front of his robes and straightened his collar, brushing the hair away from his face. He watched Hermione's figure in shadow as she approached him on the beach, and as the sphere of light from her wand illuminated him, he could see she was donned in her nightclothes. His lips formed into a small smile before he realized it.

Hermione's tentative footsteps grew swifter when she was able to positively identify him, and she ran right up to him and leapt up to hug him; for a moment, he held his arms up and tensed instinctually, before returning the embrace. Affectionate human touch felt foreign to him. He savored their closeness, closing his eyes to memorize the feeling of her body pressed against his. Hermione let go, while he lingered for a few seconds longer before he realized it and drew back, his mind screaming at him for more of whatever feeling had just sparked between them when their bodies touched.

"Severus?!" Hermione gasped. "What are you doing here?!" She looked up at him with wide, expressive eyes that were bright and welcoming, full of excitement—with only a hint of fear at being discovered.

"I've come here to dissuade you from going through with this plan that you keep telling me is destined for failure. Let me help you, Hermione," Severus pled, placing his hands on her shoulders.

Hermione tucked a tendril of hair behind her sun-kissed ear and looked away, "If you've come to talk me out of it, it's not going to work. I don't have a choice. This is the only way I can think of."

"And I know that you've likely given it endless thought, and I'm not saying that the conclusions of your brilliant mind aren't up to par, but sometimes hearing another's perspective is helpful. Your letter even said you wished you could consult me."

Hermione looked like she would burst if she didn't soon speak, but she remained silent, and he could see the debate raging behind her eyes. "Hermione," he squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, "Please, talk to me."

"It's dangerous for you to know this. You-Know-Who could punish you severely for knowing it," Hermione finally managed hoarsely.

"Must I remind you of my skills as an occlumens?" Snape whispered.

"Gah!" Hermione threw her hands up, "Promise me, Severus, that you will save your comments and criticisms for when I've completely finished speaking?"

Reluctantly, Severus nodded.

"Okay," she took a deep, uneven breath before beginning, "First, I suppose I should start out by telling you our goal in doing all this—we wish to break into Gringotts, because we believe that there's a Horcrux stowed away there, specifically in the vault of the Lestranges."

She saw the shock flash in his dark eyes, and she looked away before continuing, "I believe that's why she tortured me, Severus. She kept accusing me of having broken into her vault already to steal the sword of Gryffindor, an obvious falsity. She was acting out of her head about it, fixated on asking me that one question over and over in a hundred different ways. In so doing, I think she gave herself away. We are almost certain that the Dark Lord asked her to keep something there for him, under lock and key, and all the other fortifications and securities that Gringotts affords to only the wealthiest and longest lineages in wizarding history."

Severus spoke very carefully, and she could tell he was struggling to temper his instinctual reaction to the craziness she was now spouting. "So, how do you intend to accomplish this extraordinary feat?" He inquired quietly, enunciating every syllable, in the monotone voice that he used to suppress his sarcasm and strike fear in the hearts of his students. Even now, conditioning sent a chill down her spine at the practiced clinically calm voice of her schooldays.

"Um…" Hermione felt herself getting tripped up by his obvious displeasure and unease, "Well, we have a small vial of polyjuice potion at our disposal. So, I was going to… I-I was going to use a hair sample that I attained at the Manor to become Bellatrix in order to get into her vault."

"How do you know you've got it right this time and won't morph into Lucius Malfoy or something?" remarked Severus bitingly.

"It's a black hair," she countered, as if that somehow made it better.

"Rodolphus then!" Severus snapped.

She swallowed, hurrying to finish before he could interrupt again, "Also, we've got another advantage—an insider, a Goblin who has agreed to help us, so we've been planning in tandem with him, and so far, that's the best we've come up with. It's really an impossible undertaking any way you look at it," she finished sheepishly. She noticed Severus's fingertips pressing taut into her shoulders with a grip that betrayed his impassivity.

"Hermione," he began, squeezing her shoulders to punctuate his every point, and she could tell he was trying his best to be delicate and tactful in his rebuttal, "Do you remember me writing you after you'd been subjected to the Cruciatus curse?"

Hermione nodded slowly. "So, I'm sure then you remember the warning that I included regarding the after-effects of said curse? The mood swings, random sharp pain, paranoia, depression and general malaise? Well, there are also other rare, serious after-effects, chief among them delusions—that comes part and parcel with paranoia—and a rise in impulsivity," Severus explained as he stared, unblinking, into her eyes, regarding her strangely—with a sort of forced clinical detachment that made her feel like she was under a microscope.

Hermione cocked her head questioningly in response, and Severus seemed frustrated that he hadn't yet gotten through to her.

"Hermione," there was a gentle kindness in his upward inflection, "Do you think perhaps these side-effects are interfering with and upsetting your normally rational thinking?"

"Severus, please stop talking to me as if I'm a head-case. I can't handle that…not from you. I need you to be my counterweight again, please," she looked up at him through wide and pleading eyes, as she grasped his forearms, his hands still clutching her shoulders. "Of course, I've felt plenty out-of-sorts since it happened, but it's hard for me to separate or distinguish what part of that comes from my current circumstances as opposed to my experience with the Cruciatus," she admitted quietly, hanging her head in shame.

"I'm all too familiar with that sort of confusion, and it never gets any less disconcerting, feeling like your mind is not your own—when you think you're thinking and behaving rationally when you are not, you are simply unable to see it or realize it for yourself." Severus tilted her chin upward with his fingers, which revealed that she had been crying, "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Hermione, and since you've only suffered through it once, these effects will not be permanent." He tried to comfort her as tears seeped through her tightly closed eyes, droplets collecting in her lashes.

Severus urged her to sit with him on the sand and rest. He kept one hand on her shoulder, maintaining contact. Hermione laughed suddenly, sounding more like a hiccup, and he waited for her to explain why. "I'm so happy you're here," she said, her face a duplicitous mix of smile and sniffles.

Severus felt his stomach clench. "Likewise," he replied quieter still.

Hermione had so many questions prior to his arrival, yet now she could hardly think at all. "I'm surprised you returned my first letter," she managed.

"I couldn't resist answering a little fan mail," replied Severus sarcastically in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Hermione laughed through her sniffles, "Okay, Professor Lockhart."

Severus cast her a feigned glare before countering, "Ah, your old schoolgirl crush."

Hermione looked taken aback, "How on earth do you know about that?"

Severus grinned, "Professor Lothario was fond of reading his fan mail aloud at staff meetings. I'd recognize your know-it-all writing style anywhere. Even some of my colleagues wrote such drivel to him."

She laughed, and it seemed as if they existed in some far-away place without war, without death and destruction and sides.

"I hope your taste has improved since then." Severus remarked, only half-joking.

Emboldened by their current rapport, Hermione smiled, "I'd like to think so. I know he'd never read a love letter aloud to the staff room."

For a moment, Severus laughed in response—until his mouth suddenly went dry as he stopped and thought about what she'd just said— _but he'd be in the staffroom?_ Hermione's gazed at the sand so strongly that he assumed she'd identified an individual grain of it, and his ribcage tightened painfully. A silence pervaded for an uncomfortably long time, but Severus couldn't even hear it over his racing thoughts.

Severus noticed Hermione shivering, so he edged closer to her on the sand until he could throw his arm around her shoulders and envelope her in his cloak—he hoped she couldn't tell that his arm was trembling.

"Thank you," she said, moving closer to him to bridge the gap, their bodies touching. She relished in the warmth his body offered under the cloak. Severus grasped her wrist and pulled up her sleeve to examine the word "mudblood" that had been carved into the flesh of her left forearm. He hadn't fully realized his rage until he saw the word that marred her pale skin. "I'll kill her myself," he whispered icily, and she felt the hand over her shoulder draw her closer.

Severus cleared his throat and returned to the topic at hand, "After I received you last letter, I was desperate and determined to get here before you embarked on this mad endeavor. I had to see you," he whispered as he stroked her shoulder blade.

"I can't back out," she squeaked, "we've already wasted so much valuable time. It's almost in motion." She wrung her hands nervously. As he held her, Severus's mind grappled desperately for ideas, for contingency plans, for anything he could do to help. Hermione seemed to intuit his thoughts when she said, "I can't let you get involved Severus. I made you a promise that I wouldn't intervene on your behalf, and I must ask you to make me the same promise, please." Her voice was muted and breathy.

"I'm disposable Hermione. You are not. There is nothing for me in this world once this war is over. It's too late for me, but you have a brilliant future ahead of you," Severus said quietly, looking down at her with a look that she couldn't place, but it was stark and honest, yet caring and careful.

"Do you always think of others above yourself?" Hermione asked him sadly.

She rested her head on his shoulder, and he admired her from that new angle, where he could smell the fresh scent of her hair, still wet and slick from the shower, and inhale the milky scent of her skin. "I can't make that promise," he murmured, lips grazing her hair. "Things are different now. We've already skirted the rules."

"Different how?" Hermione asked, with an air of expectation.

Severus stumbled over his words, pausing for a long moment in which he looked embarrassed before finally saying, "They just are!"

Smiling coyly at him, she nuzzled his shoulder almost imperceptibly, "Do you remember what you said when Harry said "he just knew" Malfoy was the perpetrator?" She looked up through her lashes slyly. Severus decided not to answer.

"I expected a better explanation from you, Severus," she teased, taking a chance and placing her hand lightly and playfully on his chest. "I'm afraid I must ask you to make that promise to me if you cannot present a more convincing explanation." She smiled, closing her eyes.

"Don't push your luck," warned Severus, although even with her eyes shut, she could hear the small smile in his voice.

"I'm serious," she giggled. "We are reasonable people Severus. We must act as such."

"There are certain things that are better left unsaid in the current uncertain climate," Severus murmured half-heartedly, his stomach clenching again.

"Talk about maddeningly elusive," Hermione teased, enjoying their bantering, chipping away at his avoidance strategy.

"We are different," he managed.

"Different, how?"

Severus struggled uncomfortably, "Fine, I'm different."

She tilted her head in a manner that echoed her earlier question.

"I cannot, in good conscience, make a promise that I do not believe I can keep. I know without question that if you were in danger, even if it betrayed my own cover, I would intervene on your behalf using any means necessary. I cannot promise you, Hermione. It has become my instinctual choice that cannot be reasoned away. I've come to care for you, and I cannot stand by and watch you suffer or be a silent observer to a plan that could and likely will endanger your life. I came here at great personal risk, and I would do it again in a heartbeat in similar and even lesser circumstances. I cannot go back to those initial rules, it's simply impossible. You ask what has changed? Well, everything."

Severus stared forward into the darkness, awaiting rejection or for her to recoil at his admission, but neither came, and when he finally gathered the courage to look down at her again, his heart skipped a few beats when he saw her smiling with a look of pure adoration that exceeded his modest expectations and his wildest dreams. Hermione's heart leapt and an electric feeling quickened her pulse and sent bizarrely pleasant aching pangs through her stomach, and she felt like she could breathe deeper than she ever had, which only intensified that bubbling champagne-like effect of new affection.

"May I ask you a question, Severus?" she asked, her voice unsure.

"Of course, I said I'd hold you to it, if you remember." Severus replied silkily.

Hermione smiled broadly, albeit a little sadly, "Yes, I remember."

"I'm not even sure how to ask this or if it's inappropriate or ill-timed or what have you. But… How do you see me, Severus?" She asked, her eyes guarded.

"How I see you?" He repeated, seeking clarification.

Hermione stared, laughing nervously, "Well, do you see me like a daughter or care for me as a friend? Or do you see me in another way?" She couldn't bring herself to ask him outright, her old world relationship rules seemingly forbade it.

For a time, he was silent, and she bit her bottom lip nervously, fearing she'd pressed him too far too soon. "Not like a daughter, no. Perhaps that is just remnant behavior from when I was your teacher. I've never thought of myself parentally in any context—mentor maybe, but it doesn't quite fit all. I care for you a great deal, as a friend, yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean or rule out that there isn't more too it. Because…to be truthful, there is much more to it than that. It's been a very long time since I've found myself…well, infatuated with someone, essentially. It's a minefield for me to navigate, but I find myself more attracted to you by the day."

"You dominate my thoughts, consume my concerns, and appear delightfully in my dreams. With all that said," he sighed deeply, "there's no way I can act on these crippling feelings without placing you in great danger, potential leverage for the Dark Lord to wield over me. I'm not so selfish; I want you desperately…but there's absolutely nothing I can do about it, if you even reciprocate, which I realize is doubtful," he finished with a hint of a question.

Hermione gaped at him. The growing wave of elation had hit a dizzying peak before crashing down on her without warning, crushing her spirit. "Severus," she whispered in pleading awe and pure shock. "I've found myself falling for you very early on," she admitted quietly. "I just didn't think that you'd ever think of me that way, no matter how much I wanted you to do so. I'm happy and I'm devastated and I have no fucking clue what to do with that information." Her voice grew more frantic as she spoke, stiff and hunched, burying her face in her hands to hide.

"I shouldn't have told you," he remarked as if to himself, with regret for hurting her with his expression of desire.

"No," she protested with a sob, "I'm glad you told me. It just hurts so badly to know that you return my affection but cannot act on it…so close but never further away."

Severus embraced her, holding her close to him, knowing but disregarding that he was flirting with danger, walking a fine but blurred line. He stroked her hair as she clutched at his robes and buried her face into his chest. He held fast to her in silence, with only the ambient sounds of the beach far-away in the background.

She slowly looked up into his searching eyes, and Severus caressed her face and wound his fingers in her hair, holding his face so close that they were almost nose to nose. She could feel the heat of his gaze as they drew closer and their lips met and they kissed with a smoldering intensity that left them aching for one another. Severus's hands wandered to Hermione's lower back to pull her flush against him as they continued their fervent kiss until they were enveloped in the others embrace. Severus wanted her so badly, and she didn't break away, but this was dangerous…so dangerous. As he explored her body with eager hands, she straddled his lap and touched him in a way that left him breathless and sent the temptation spiking; a wave of panic hit him and addled him as the ensuing barrage of second thoughts battered against him.

It wasn't regret—it was fear and shame at his lack of restraint. Thoughts of love and affection and potentially mind-blowing sex were the hardest to hide from the Dark Lord, because of their all-consuming nature; he berated himself silently for giving in and putting her in such a volatile and potentially dangerous situation.

"I'm so sorry," Severus whispered, as he came to his senses and broke the kiss, leaving Hermione looking confused and dejected.

Hermione gave him a wounded, quizzical look, "For what?"

"If the Dark Lord would happen to perform legilimency on me and see this memory, which I will admittedly already have trouble keeping off my mind, he will use you to break me. I can't let anything happen to you for my own selfishness…"

Hermione steeled herself against his words, but he could see the tears welling silently in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, feeling ashamed of himself.

"I understand, Severus. It's just…not likely to matter after tomorrow anyway. I won't be alive to be used as leverage." She burst into quiet sobs, and Severus held her, "That's not going to happen, Hermione. You will succeed; you always succeed." He kissed her forehead—he couldn't help it.

"Not this time," she sniffled, "I have a bad feeling. I want to feel what it's like to be with you, Severus, because I don't think I'll have another chance." Her words gutted Severus, who stroked her hair and continued holding her close against him. "I want you, Hermione," he whispered, "but I can't put you in danger."

"I know, I don't wish to put your life in jeopardy either. I just…I just wish our circumstances were different."

"As do I," Severus said softly. At that moment, he paled as he felt the Dark Mark burn, knowing the Dark Lord had summoned him. Hermione saw him flex his fingers and instinctively touch his left forearm, and her heart sank with her realization.

Severus saw her furtively attempting to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand and put on a brave face. He gathered her into his embrace, where she curled up against him. "I don't want you to leave, Severus," she whispered sadly.

"And every fiber of my being is screaming for me to stay," he kissed the corner of her mouth softly, "but I have no choice in the matter."

"There's always a choice. But I understand," she sniffled.

"Living as a double-agent makes it feel as if no choice is truly my own." Severus replied flatly.

The sky had gone from pitch black to grey airbrushed with light pink and clouds, and Severus knew he had to depart. "I must go," he whispered, looking away from her gaze out of fear that he adored her so much at that point that one look from her and he would change his mind.

Hermione nodded sadly and reached up to touch his face, and in spite of what he'd said, he kissed her goodbye. They lingered lip-locked together until, this time, Hermione parted from him. She kissed him once more for good measure. "Until next time," she braved hopefully, and Severus flashed her a smile that seemed forced and didn't match the forlorn expression brooding in his black eyes.


	9. Blackbirds, Backwards, Forwards and Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The title is a section of a pertinent lyric in the song "Half a World Away" by R.E.M. (in actuality, the entire song is an appropriate representation of Severus's and Hermione's in-story plight).

**IX. Blackbirds, Backwards, Forwards and Fall  
**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Over the ocean, the sky layered itself in a subtle gradation of blue, and the stars glimmered, barely visible in the pale morning sky. Hermione didn't sleep at all after Severus left, and although she could feel the heavy-limbed, aching effects of physical tiredness, her fully awake mind buzzed with activity. She reached reluctantly into her beaded bag with trembling hands, feeling for the frame of Phineas's portrait.

"Professor Black," she called out to him.

Registering the desperation that strained her voice and piqued his interest, he quickly grew larger in his frame as he approached the foreground of his portrait. "What mysterious message do you wish me to relay to the headmaster now?" He asked, his tone strangely cheery and free of disdain.

Hermione brightened, "So, Severus is alright?"

"I've hardly seen him, truth be told. He's been absent—I was questioned by Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum just last night about his whereabouts. I assume it has something to do with you," he wagered a guess.

"Is that what you told them?! And why would you assume that?!" Hermione cried sharply.

"No, Granger, calm yourself. I was simply my same, frustrating self, and they desisted, although not without hurling a slew of poorly-phrased insults aimed at my legitimacy. It's obvious though—I've seen him writing to you. He is not as sly as he thinks he is."

"I'm honestly surprised you are so accepting of this," she remarked in quiet awe.

"It's nice to see him happy for once," Phineas admitted with a small nonchalant shrug, and Hermione smiled warmly, which prompted him to roll his eyes and add, "I wish it was someone else, but if it has to be you, so be it." In spite of the backhanded nature of his compliment, Hermione couldn't help but grin.

In their time at Shell Cottage, Corvy had integrated with the chattering of choughs endemic to Pembrokeshire, and Hermione made the difficult decision to leave him there to stay. With all the uncertainty that lay ahead, she wanted to ensure his safety, and he seemed happy living among the choughs, although his gray beak made him a standout amongst his red-billed feathered friends. Adjusting to the difference in height and manner of dress, she stumbled towards Corvy as Bellatrix, and he drew back in surprise, lowering his beak warily until she spoke, and then he warmed to her again, crowing softly in greeting. She petted him and said her tearful goodbyes before returning to the cottage to finally put their plan into action.

Severus disapparated to Malfoy Manor, where the Death Eaters involved in the earlier debacle were still sequestered. Lucius met him in the parlor, and between them, it was impossible to tell who looked worse—his friend no longer carried himself with his former confidence, devoid of the calculating arrogance and dripping egotism that once distinguished him; his long blonde hair hung limply and flat to his head, and his gray eyes appeared cloudy and red-rimmed, while his once stiff upper lip trembled. They both wore the same mask of sleep deprivation, but while Severus maintained his composure, Lucius's seemed to be crumbling rapidly.

"Severus, you look terrible," Lucius commented.

"What else is new, Lucius? And I could say the same," Severus countered, hanging up his cloak—where the vial and the pensieve were still hidden away, tucked in its pocket.

After he hung his cloak, Severus attempted to stride past Lucius, but his friend blocked his path. As Lucius stood hunched in his way, Severus noticed the puffy blue bruise darkening his eye, no doubt inflicted by the Dark Lord as punishment for Potter's escape. "Severus, where have you been? The Dark Lord is not pleased," he implored in a rasping whisper—his eyes darting shiftily to make sure no one was eavesdropping on them.

Severus faltered as his mind unconsciously jumped back into Hermione's embrace, lost to her lips, lost to the way she'd settled her hips on his lap. Shaking himself out of his longing reverie, Severus focused on quieting his mind, slowing his rapid heartbeat, and meditating his mind into nothingness, succeeding by some measure. "I thought I had a lead on Potter's whereabouts, so I went to investigate the situation myself to determine its veracity, as the Dark Lord so loathes to be called away to only come up empty handed," Severus finished pointedly, looming over him. Lucius seemed to believe him, as he stood taller and stepped to the side to let Severus pass, but not before gripping his sleeve to pull him back and asking in a high-pitched whisper, "Is Draco alright? You're supposed to be there to watch over him, to protect him."

Strangely, Severus felt a flare of anger—everyone except Hermione used him for something, it seemed, and he was incredibly tired of living solely for the benefit of others, but then again, he understood his friend's desperation—it was his son, after all, and he did care for Draco, as he'd watched the boy grow up through his friendship with Lucius. "As far as I know, although I wish he would learn to control his mouthiness, as it's rather a nuisance to keep bailing him out of trouble he himself starts."

Lucius's twitchy tenseness softened upon hearing his son was alright, so Severus strode into the dining room, where he saw Bellatrix languishing across the room with her despondent husband. When he laid eyes on her, his fury felt like a white hot whip crack to his raw cerebrum—he felt the uncontrolled magic crackling within him, and it took all his strength to suppress and control it to channel it back within himself.

"The Dark Lord's looking for you," she grinned like a child who had just tattled on another, "He's in the library." She said in her wicked sing-song voice that sent another angry pulse of magic coursing through him.

Severus proceeded to the library, where Voldermort stood quietly examining the elder wand, while Nagini's diamond laced back flashed in the half-light, coiling near his feet, hissing as her eyes followed Severus around the room, disquieting him—he felt like he was staring into the Medusa-like eyes of a basilisk. "My Lord," Severus greeted him with the standard bow.

For a moment, it seemed Voldermort had not heard him, as he tested the wand's yield in his hands, but then he turned to eye him coldly, "Severus. Why have you abandoned your post? The Carrows have informed me of your conspicuous absence the last few days. You must guard Hogwarts against Harry Potter's entry—it is imperative that you do so."

Surprisingly, Severus's good standing with the Dark Lord must have earned him a pardon, because he couldn't feel any suspicion lurking behind the words, nor could he sense the disorienting, violating force of having his mind infiltrated. Severus cleared his throat as non-conspicuously as possible, "My Lord, I received a tip in regards to the whereabouts of Harry Potter, but I wished to investigate it myself first to spare you a wasted trip. The information came too late, and they were gone by the time I arrived at the area in question. It was the rigmarole of traveling to the location in question that occupied so much of my time. However, I did inform the Carrows of my intent to take a brief leave of absence, but they must have forgotten or misunderstood me, which is fairly standard for them," Severus explained, interspersing supporting beams of truth to help uphold the lie.

"I appreciate that you did not bother me with any snipe-hunting nonsense, but at the same time, I have instructed you to remain at Hogwarts unless otherwise specified, and that is where I expect you to be. Do you understand?" The Dark Lord's eyes remained trained on the elder wand.

"Yes, My Lord, my apologies. I will return to Hogwarts post-haste," Severus replied.

Distracted, Voldermort narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the wand, and as Severus made as if to leave the room, Voldermort called out for him again, his tone uncertain, "Severus?"

"Yes, My Lord," Severus replied, holding his breath.

Lowering the wand, Voldermort sighed airily, "Never mind. We will speak on the subject another time."

Although the words sounded perfectly benign, Severus felt a sense of foreboding upon hearing them, and he quickly exited the room before Voldermort could have time to analyze his lie any further.

As he re-entered the dining room, a petulant Bellatrix examined Severus with a hateful scowl when she saw he bore no injuries or marks of punishment like she and Lucius and the rest had suffered for their transgression. Amused, he watched her reach for her wand before she remembered that it was no longer in her possession, and he flashed her a self-satisfied smile—her tattle-tale victim had miraculously gotten off scot free; it took all his fortitude to refrain from darting his tongue out at her like a child.

When he returned to his office at Hogwarts, he couldn't shake the skin-crawling sensation that accompanied his uncertainty over the outcome of Hermione's crazed plan, and he sat at his desk the rest of the morning, occasionally completing actual work. Mostly, he replayed the memory of Shell Cottage in his mind's eye, and he couldn't help but smile, but then he would remember Gringotts, and his face would flush hot, leading him to bury his head in his hands in utter hopelessness.

To distract himself, he re-read her letters—letters he should've never kept with the Carrows ever prowling about his office. A warm wave of exhilaration welled in his stomach whenever he remembered the feeling of her body in his arms, when he remembered her soft lips and the taste of wine still on her mouth, when he remembered the tender and amorous ways she touched him before he pulled away out of sheer necessity.

All morning long, Dumbledore pestered him and pressed him for the details of his strange journey, but Severus remained mum on the subject, instead engaging him in a battle of circumvention and circumlocution—and winning for once. When the Carrows burst into the room to tell him about the undesirable trio robbing Gringotts and escaping on a dragon, his heart swelled with pride in Hermione, but his happiness was soon curtailed when everything descended into chaos.

* * *

 

The moment had come, and as he stood by the lake, looking up at the shower of curses arcing and bursting in midair like fireworks in the night sky, Severus thought about what he had to do, and he thought about Lily. Severus's love for Lily had existed in the eternal Elysian realm of childish, unrequited love, pure and untouched, unmarred by time and the reality that morphs real relationships into something else, multifaceted and deep and fulfilling, yet nowhere near as perfect as unconsummated love, with its endless possibilities and flame of undying hope—the kind of ephemeral love that could never subsist one for a lifetime, as much as Severus had pathetically tried to make it. It wasn't real, and it never would be, but Severus was a smart man, and he knew that. The animosity that bristled within him even now regarding her choice of mate was a testament enough to that.

Severus had grieved for her, the image of the girl he'd built up in his mind and edified over the years, not the girl who really existed in the flesh, the wife and the mother who was a stranger to him for many years prior to her death. Still, he rued the day he heard the prophecy and delivered it to the Dark Lord; he had yearned for the acceptance and praise that his parents and teachers and fellows had denied him when he informed his master and handed over the once love of his life and her family to him on a silver platter. The guilt kept him going, propelling him long after the love petered out and the bitterness crept into and took up residence his soul.

Severus cared for Harry in a perfunctory way, out of duty alone; although Severus vehemently doubted the existence of an afterlife, especially one with room for him, on the off chance that one did exist, he knew in his heart that Lily would be there, and he wanted her to forgive him and respect him, even just a little. In a perverse way, he wanted Harry to see how wrong he really was—to see how many times Severus had saved the day, helped him behind the scenes, to see the vicious treatment he received at his esteemed father's hands, to see that he didn't do it for him, not at all, but for her. Severus had debated over which memories he wished to give to Harry, if the moment presented itself.

Currently, Harry regarded Snape as a duplicitous traitor, above all, and as Albus's murderer and a loyal death-eater from the word "go." This troubled Severus, who harbored the full story, with all its nuance, all its shades of gray. Severus had no desire to leave Harry forever questioning the circumstances behind his death, and he carefully reviewed his memories, selecting a handful of them to hover attainably on his stream-of-consciousness. Appreciating the craft of a story, Severus selected memories that formed a narrative that Harry could identify with—one that wrapped up everything in a neat bow. Severus omitted several important memories in order to preserve the sense of "story." It was his last chance to strike a sympathetic pose, and he wasn't thinking.

When Lucius finally located Severus and informed him of the Dark Lord's need to speak with him, Severus saw his fate in Lucius's eyes, which were wide with fear as he regarded Severus with an undisguised air of finality. Severus remained resolute and unaffected by his friend's words—Lucius started to stammer something, but then he pressed his lips together, and Severus realized that he wanted to warn him to the point he was forcibly suppressing his will to do so. Severus bid his friend an ordinary farewell, concealing any inkling that he already knew what Lucius was fighting so hard not to say to take the burden off of him.

Severus walked briskly to the Shrieking Shack, ruminating over the building's omnipresence in his life. The marauders had tricked him into almost entering a werewolf's den before they aborted their plan at the last moment, leading James to stop him at the Willow, leaving him indebted to a man for saving him when that same man had urged him toward his death. Next he recalled his pursuit of Sirius that led to the Shack—he worked off of what he knew to be true, that Sirius broke the Fidelius charm and sealed Lily's fate. This had only intensified a present loathing of the man who tortured him in his schooldays. Perhaps, he was destined to die in the Shrieking Shack; it seemed fitting for it all to end where it all ostensibly began. Perhaps, death had lay in wait for him there, patiently biding his time until he could collect his due; maybe Severus had been meant to die at Lupin's hand—or rather, his claws and teeth. Dying at that moment would have spared so many other lives, nullified so much other pain and altered the course of the Wizarding world.

The crushing weight of responsibility bore down on him; had he known, he would've went against James and marched into the Shack without hesitation. The accumulation of hundreds of lives spared far exceeded the worth of his survival. Lily could've watched her soon grow up, she could've seen him off to Hogwarts his first year and every year thereafter; she could be a content thirty-something full of life and vitality, enriching the world instead of souring it like him. James surviving would just be an unfortunate consequence of that. Hermione would be at the idyllic Hogwarts of her childhood, wrapping up her final year with a vast and promising future spread out before her, unfettered by war or Horcruxes. She would've avoided the debacle of the hunt, avoided the injuries she sustained throughout their journey; she never would've fallen into the depths of depression.

Finally, she would've never crossed paths with him, a happy circumstance for her that would have benefited her most of all. He regretted engaging her in correspondence—if he simply would've ignored that first letter, maybe she would've lost interest in him instead of igniting a slow burn still building in both of their souls. If she'd only decided against writing him, she would've avoided the inevitable fallout surrounding his death; she would've been spared the grief and heartache; she wouldn't be guilty by mere association with him.

These thoughts kept him pressing onward on his death march, immersed in contemplation, so that when he approached the willow, he hardly registered it until the great knotted and gnarled tree swiftly switched him with a branch. Severus grabbed a long stick and pressed the knot at the tree's entangled roots and dodged the last branches before slipping into the tunnel. The tunnel's stone walls seeped moisture, wetting the moss and lichens that clung to them, making the thick, dank air rich with the smell of wet stone and moss and fungi and the soil that he trudged through, which made Severus dwell on the thought of tombs and soon becoming a corpse, buried forever under the earth. He crouched in a way that aggravated his spine to the point that he actually felt some relief when he climbed into the Shack.

He moved the crate blocking the opening back into position with his foot before he surveyed his surroundings. He always wondered how Albus managed to make a relatively new dwelling appear so uninhabitable and decayed in a way that is typically exclusive to elapsing time. Some of the floorboards were broken or missing, creating a maze of potential pitfalls. A mix of sawdust and insulation and wood splinters formed piles on the floor and seemed to ubiquitously dust every surface, and the place reeked of mildew. It appeared like someone wildly took a hammer to the drywall, which revealed large cracks and holes and evidence of Lupin's days spent there—claw marks had shredded the wallpaper. The moonlight peeked through the roof where shingles had scaled off and provided minimal visibility.

A single candle flickered in the draft that swept through the house at periodic intervals. Severus watched and silently championed the flame as it fought to stay alight as he awaited the Dark Lord, wondering when his light would be snuffed out in the same manner. Severus heard the creak and whine of the precarious set of stairs with a rickety balustrade missing several supports. The Dark Lord descended the stairs and entered the room where Severus stood; the suspended serpent writhed agitatedly in the blue sphere that appeared like a miniature cosmos, a microcosm with celestial views. The white star spots seemed to sparkle in the candlelight.

The snake had always disquieted him; even as a member of Slytherin house, Severus never had a particular affinity for the reptiles—at best he felt indifferent towards them and appreciated the symbolism but not the symbol true to form, at worst, watching Nagini curl and hiss mere inches from him made his skin crawl with her every sinuous move. "My Lord," Severus greeted his master with a polite bow. Voldermort's red eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Severus, his slit nostrils flaring almost imperceptibly as he did so. The sallow white skin of his face seemed stretched over the bones more tightly and severely than before, his skin discolored with an unhealthy cast of gray. "Severus, I need to speak with you about the elder wand. It refuses to yield to me. The connection feels severed and weak." Voldermort began. Severus straightened his spine and summoned every ounce of courage and composure he possessed; his fight or flight senses were sounding wildly, but with great effort, he ignored them.

* * *

 

Hermione crouched behind Harry in the narrow passageway, pressed against the damp stones supporting the tunnel, straining to gain a line of sight into the Shrieking Shack, but a battered old crate halfway blocked her only eye-line. Finally, her eyes came to rest on a pair of leather boots, a sight which made her heart stop, although it took a few moments for her conscious thought process to catch-up with the realization that those boots belonged to Severus. She heard the floorboards creak as Voldermort paced the room. Hermione's heart beat like that of a frightened rabbit, while her ears rung with fear and a sound like tinnitus spiked in pitch. The sight had arrested her lungs, and she forgot she needed to breathe. An overwhelming sense of claustrophobia left her senses screaming.

Finally, she tuned into what the two wizards were saying above the ringing in her ears. Somehow, Severus kept his voice measured and calm, as he always did, but Voldermort's usually careful tamped tone modulated, his voice rippling with an undercurrent of barely concealed rage, seething through the words so that she knew that his mood indicated his intentions at the moment were anything but benign. Severus crossed and uncrossed his boots in a nervous manner that communicated to her that he had reached the same conclusion about his master. She watched Harry's body start to bend and crumple inward like a dying insect, and she saw him alarmingly bite down on his fist with such force that blood began to seep through the cracks between his teeth in a vampirical way. Her instincts screamed at her and bombarded her brain with signals and impulses to leap into action, to fight to protect Severus, and it took all her willpower to deny them, and they compounded each other until she felt her limbs twitch with each signal she parried.

She buried her nails into her own palms, as the pain felt enjoyable in contrast. Blood dripped down her palms even though she hardly registered the sensation. The words Voldermort spoke grew more pointed and clear. Hermione noticed that Severus had stilled, both boots planted firmly on the floor with tension. Hermione mouthed "no" on her every shallow breath and shook her head with every utterance, now clinging to the diaphanous fabric of the cloak. She forced her eyes to stay trained on the scene before her, however horrific it may turn out to be—to have any hope of helping him, she had to watch. She waited to be blinded by the flash of luminescent green and slayed by hearing those two final words, and each second ticked in her brain, giving her hope than waned even before the next second ticked by.

The subject of the elder wand left her back arching up like a cat's as she realized the conclusion the machinations of Voldermort's mind was building towards. Every system in her body attacked her with an onslaught of fight over flight impulses so intense she felt like an epileptic being told to stop the convulsing. She trembled and her heartbeat pounded in her ears with painful, reverberating echoes, with that high frequency sound piercing her sanity. Her face felt completely numb, her vocal chords paralyzed and useless, cut like defunct instrument strings. She opened her mouth in a silent scream and fought to keep her eyelids open. A sound reached her eardrums that knocked her off balance and anguished her until her heart hurt. The snake poised to strike and sounded like the crack of a whip as it sank its fangs into Severus's neck and he screamed in agony, and although Hermione could see very little of the scene, the image in her mind was tangible and crushingly real.

She watched Snape fall to the floor with the force of the snake's strike, and she heard gurgling sounds that made her want to vomit. She could finally see his face, and she watched the life rapidly draining from his eyes like the blood from his veins. He clasped his neck with a shaking hand to stop the bleeding before it fell weakly to the floor, a sanguine mess. She watched him twitch violently and moan in pain and thrash weakly on the floor to attempt to right himself. She heard the dull sound of the floorboards creaking and the click of a door being shut, and she realized that Voldermort had simply left Severus to bleed to death on the dusty floor. She clambered up against Harry as he magically moved the crate and scrambled up into the room.

Blood spattered the walls and formed a dark pool on the floor near Severus's neck. She bit her bottom lip and commanded herself not to cry and worsen the situation, because she new as soon as that first tear hit the surface, she would totally fall apart. She met his obsidian eyes and caught the flash of recognition in his lingering gaze in a moment that felt both infinite and infinitesimal. Harry knelt down beside the dying professor and attempted feebly to staunch the wound with his fingers as Snape gasped for breath like a fish out of water. Silvery, blue-hued ethereal tears streamed down his white face, and he gestured towards them and urged Harry to catch them in a flask. Before her mind could even catch up with the wand in her trembling hands Hermione had conjured a flask from thin air. Harry collected the tears until they brimmed in the flask before placing the stopper in it with his blood-stained hand. Staring at Severus's glazed eyes, she felt ashamed that she'd ever thought of his eyes as looking "dead," because when all the subtleties she'd seen flicker in their depths were gone, it seemed like she was looking into someone else's altogether.

Hermione saw the lines of dried blood that coated her own hands from where her nails had pierced her palms. A sound that seemed to broadcast to her brain itself soon had her pressing those bloodied palms to her ears in attempt to silence it. Voldermort spoke in English, but the maddening hiss of parsletongue whispered behind the words like a serpent slithering through her brain matter, making her feel insane. At hearing the voice of the man who killed Severus, she felt electric pulses of magic crackle at her fingers tips and out of every pore. Voldermort had given Harry one hour to hand himself over to him without more bloodshed. Finally, the last hisses that lingered behind his words ceased writhing painfully through her brain, and she grew frantic and panicky. She watched in horror as Harry and Ron made as if to exit the Shack.

"We can't just leave him here!" She cried desperately.

"Why not?" asked Ron incredulously as he looked at Severus's body with pure revulsion, "Are you mad?"

"Didn't you hear him Hermione?! I can't let anyone else die because of me!" Harry shouted, rubbing his scar as he winced.

"But he's saved us so many times, when, frankly, we didn't always deserve it." Her voice broke.

"She's mental," Ron urged Harry along. "Come on, 'Mione, we can have a private service for the greasy git later," Ron sniggered childishly, nudging Harry who he expected to be in agreement, but Harry only cast him a reproachful look, "Ron, not now."

At Ron's words, Hermione felt her magic animate her and work of its own will, the will of her righteous anger. Ron toppled backward with the force of the blow, falling into an old dresser that splintered into pieces when he made contact with it.

"What the hell?!" He scrambled to his feet before backing away from her with fear.

Harry's eyes widened as he looked between his friends, "Did you do that Hermione?" He asked carefully.

"Not intentionally," she answered, offering no apology. She crossed her arms, and threw herself to the floor beside Severus's body, "I'm staying."

"'Mione," Ron's tone softened as he took a tentative step towards her, grabbing her shoulders in attempt to pull her away from Severus, "You can't stay here. I won't let you—"Ron couldn't even finish his sentence before Hermione violently shrugged him off, repeatedly thrusting her finger in his face, "You wont LET me Ronald? Wont LET me!?" Her eyes were wild with fury at his assertion. Ron appeared wounded, but he refused to back down, and they began shouting at each other, each of them attempting to be heard above and to the exclusion of the other.

"ENOUGH!" Harry bellowed as he rubbed his scar until it was ruddied, "I've had enough of you two quarreling."

"Harry!?" Hermione broke away from the fight to regard Harry, wilting as if he'd just struck her across the face, "Harry can't you see this is different?" She implored, her voice high-pitched and strained and cracking with emotion.

Harry's withering look punctuated the fact that he did not, but the sight of Hermione in that state hit him right in the gut, and he softened his tone, "I think you should stay, Hermione." Harry stated quietly, looking at Ron; he worded it as if it was his idea to sway his friend, who so often longed to emulate the chosen one. "At least here I know you will be safe." He added genuinely, smiling sadly at the thought of this being the last time he would see her.

Hermione appeared unburdened by him being in agreement, and she looked at him in relief. "Ron," Harry elbowed his friend, who stared at them both in silent, gaping confusion, "Don't you want Hermione to be safe?" Harry asked pointedly.

"Oh, right then," Ron mumbled, "Yes, 'Mione, I want you to be safe." She could practically see the terrier tail tucked between his legs with his forced concession. Ron looked back at Hermione once, staring at her as if he were staring at a completely different girl than the one he knew, before descending into the tunnel without another word.

Harry threw him the invisibility cloak down to him and said, "One moment, I'll be right behind you." Ron nodded dourly and caught the cloak before walking out of sight. Harry knelt down next to Hermione.

"You do think I'm mental," she whispered as she hung her head sadly.

"No," Harry chuckled, "Hermione, if you're mental, the rest of us are certifiable."

She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly for a moment, "Good luck Harry, my dear friend." She whispered, not wishing to let go and essentially release her friend to his own devices.

"Goodbye, Hermione." Harry said his poignant goodbye before descending into the tunnel, pausing to look up at her from below with a rueful smile that Hermione returned before he departed for good.

She kicked the crate back against the opening, and then she grappled at the bottom of her beaded bag until she felt the cool glass and the familiar conical shape of the vial of phoenix tears; she grabbed it with trembling fingers and uncorked it as carefully as she could in her state of sheer panic. She placed his head in her lap so that it lolled over her thigh, leaving his neck bared to her, and she tilted the vial over the wound, dripping the entire contents of the bottle into the gaping fang marks. She held her breath and watched his inert body for any signs of life, and time seemed to go into a period of stasis. When he didn't stir, her emotions ruptured.


	10. Sunt Lacrimae Rerum

**X. Sunt Lacrimae Rerum**

"There are Tears for Things"

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Hermione collapsed, choking on the sobs that followed each other in quick succession as she coughed and fought to catch her breath to no avail. She caressed his face, his expression strangely serene, although his face was smeared with blood, and the gruesome wound at his neck was sticky with half-coagulated blood. She threw herself across his chest, taking in the closeness and the fleeting warmth his body offered; she buried her face against his robes and held him.

Her ribcage felt like a painful prison for her straining lungs, which fluttered uncomfortably with every shaky inhale; each equally shaky exhale came with a sharp, stabbing pain to her heart. Whenever she garnered enough courage to look into his eyes again for any sign of vitality, her stomach roiled and cramped with viselike intensity. The bottle of phoenix tears lying on the floor beside had Fawkes' lament playing in her head with a lifelike presence.

The emotion it evoked at the death of Dumbledore paled in comparison to how she felt this time, about Severus. She trembled with the music's strains, and her sobs grew sharper, more painful, and more pained-sounding. It felt like a castle stone had been dropped on her chest, restricting her breathing. Her soul had withered in her breast, and the lament sounded more like a dirge or a requiem. No complete conscious thought would form.

In a phantasmagoria, still images from memories of Severus and from things that only ever existed in her imagination flashed in her mind in an intense flurry, like someone threw a lifetime of photos into the air with abandon like confetti. The emotion that paired with each memory in light of current circumstances clung fiercely to her receptors, leaving her at the mercy of memory and competing emotions fighting for precedence. Her love for Severus, while persisting, also morphed into all-consuming, crippling grief that left her doubled-over. The depths of her grief were rivaled only by the enormity of her feelings for him.

She was plagued by the thought that she would never speak to him again, never touch or hold him again so that he could feel it too, never ask him another question or receive another answer. No future, only a past that never came to full fruition due to circumstances. Logically, she knew this could be a possibility for one or for both of them, but nothing could have prepared her for his death—her own demise she'd planned for and come to terms with, but his was unprecedented. She felt her sanity shatter into a million tiny pieces with never a hope of being mended.

Another sob forced itself to the surface with a cry of woe. Tears poured down her face, so that her cheeks were soaked; they brimmed fountain-like in her eyes and ran over with no sign of letting up, the salt of her tears leaving her cheeks raw. She would pick years under the Cruciatus over this, over this pain. She wanted to curl up on the floor and die next to him. She wanted to tell him all the things she'd held back before out of fear of being discovered through legilimency.

She wanted to murder Voldermort with her bare hands. She even wanted to scream at Severus for not being more careful, although she felt guilt rise in her throat like bile over having the thought. She buried her head in her hands, tears seeping from between her fingers, mixing with the blood from her palms to form pinkish watery traces. She nuzzled against him and prayed with everything she had to any deity that may or may not exist, bargaining with everything in her and offering herself up to the heavens instead.

She clung to him desperately, knowing that anyone who found them would first try to pry her away from him, and she didn't know if she'd kill them first before letting go. The pain wrested another sob from her in three choking, gasping breaths when she felt Severus shudder beneath her with an echoed choking cough, and she felt his hands come to rest on her back.

She gasped loudly with a cry of surprise before a sniffling squeal of pure joy. She scrambled off of him to give him room to breathe, and she let calm fall on her like a theatre curtain, knowing she had to be strong for Severus. A few final tears trailed down her cheeks slowly, and her breathing remained shallow but progressively improving, although her sniffles lingered and felt like hiccups after crying for so long and so desperately.

"Severus!" she exclaimed with an exultant note in her voice. She reached into her beaded bag, her hands still wracked with tremors so violent she could barely grasp the bottle of water she sought. She held the bottle to his lips as he gasped for breath; he spluttered and coughed before managing to drink a few sips successfully.

"Hermione," he spoke with difficulty, his black eyes searching her face as if he thought he was hallucinating. Elated at his revival, she couldn't help but smile.

"Yes, Severus, I'm here. It's alright." The platitude meant nothing she knew, but it comforted her to say it. She brushed some stray hairs from his face, and gazed down at him, wondering if she was hallucinating too, wondering if it was all a scene from her war-ravaged, grief-stricken imagination as it went into protection mode. Watching his eyes drift in and out of focus as he tried to get his bearings, she grasped his hand reassuringly, hoping it would prove as comforting to him as it did to her.

"How?" Severus whispered hoarsely, swallowing and wincing at the way it made the wound at his neck throb

"The phoenix tears," Hermione replied simply before adding, "and plenty of my own." She smiled with a small, dry laugh. Severus's eyes came to rest on the glinting glass of the empty vial of phoenix tears that lay discarded next to Hermione; he lifted his chin with his realization, "Oh, Hermione, no…"

Fittingly, the universe had deprived Severus even of his hard-earned respite—the sweet nothingness his tired and damaged soul craved. The injustice of it all stoked his undying sense of sarcasm, but even this defense mechanism, an old favorite, felt half-hearted and empty. He wanted to hate Hermione for saving his life, for wasting the phoenix tears, but he couldn't will himself to do so when he so clearly remembered seeing the flash of relief and the more enduring look of happiness that she had shown in her eyes upon learning that he was indeed alive.

"How did you find me here?" He made as if to gesture about the room with his free hand, but Hermione covered it with her own, urging him to remain still.

"We were looking for You-Know-Who, and we encouraged Harry to utilize his connection with his mind to find his whereabouts, and he saw him in this room and recognized it as the Shrieking Shack. We didn't know you were here," she explained. The exceptional fact that the only witch with the ability, resourcefulness, and means to save him had thus appeared and done just that seemed too coincidental even for his cynical self.

"Come here." She whispered, dipping a bottle of essence of dittany against her fingertips. He leaned towards her, and she dabbed the cuts on his face, watching as they mended themselves seamlessly with fresh skin. Severus seemed to grow clearer from his disorientation, and she looked into eyes and knew his mind was mostly present. He seized her wrist to cease her rhythmic hand movements, and she regarded him curiously.

"Thank you, Hermione, for saving my life," he whispered before releasing her wrist and letting her tend to him again. Hermione smiled shyly and nodded. She made as if to examine the wound at his throat, and he flinched instinctively before craning his neck to allow her access. She traced the two fanged puncture wounds lightly with her fingers, realizing how deep they truly were.

"Will it work on dark magic?" She asked in reference to the dittany, rubbing some into the wound to test the reaction—she saw no change.

"Not likely," Severus whispered as he looked away from her. "How many have died?" He gave a voice to the uneasy question plaguing them both.

"I'm not sure," she answered honestly before remembering seeing Percy fling himself over Fred's corpse to guard it from further harm and watching Fenrir feast on Lavender's crushed throat. She made a noise like a drowning person gasping for breath before she began sobbing tearfully again, although more quietly.

Severus winced before braving, "One of your own?"

"Yes," she sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, "Fred!" She gasped with another sob.

Severus grimaced, "I'm sorry," he whispered, and while she wondered for a split-second if he could feel such compassion for a Weasley, she didn't doubt his present sincerity. Her tears appeared silver in the moonlight piercing the holes in the roof of the dilapidated shack, and he slowly cupped her face in his shaky hands and thumbed away her tears in a tender gesture that moved Hermione and made her cry more. Severus held his arms outstretched in invitation, which she registered immediately as she slumped forward into his waiting, welcome embrace. She buried her face against his chest, her tears dripping on his robes.

Both their faces were smeared with blood and dirt, but neither cared. Severus held her as tightly as his weakened limbs would allow and rubbed her back in attempt to comfort her; he whispered her refrain, affecting as much compassion as he could into his voice, "Hermione, it's alright," hoping it would soothe her, but his first utterance of the mantra elicited another sharp sob. Cautiously, he repeated her words until his gentle cadence seemed to sooth her, and she grew silent but for her sniffling and swallowing and breathing, although her tears continued to fall.

She wrapped her arms around him and took in the full feeling of relief in his survival; she nuzzled against his chest and whispered, "I'm so happy you're alright." She quavered, her voice cracking with emotion.

Severus perched his chin atop her head and stroked her back lovingly, "I'm immeasurably happy you're here with me now." She looked up at him through her glittering tears with a warm, loving look that improved his spirits further, before she kissed him lightly for a few moments. Severus smiled and stroked her hair, examining a singed strand of it between his fingers, "What happened to your hair?"

She curled onto his lap, resting her head on the shoulder opposite the neck wound, "Crabbe cast fiend fire on us in the Room of Requirement. The fire quickly consumed the room, leaving us to scramble up on of the unburned towers of lost items, along with Draco and Goyle. Crabbe attempted the ascent but lost his footing and fell into the fire raging below, burning him alive I imagine."

She paused to give Severus time to take in the heavy subject matter and the death of one of his house. Severus shook his head sadly, although didn't appear too surprised by the news, "I tried very hard with he and Goyle, but neither one was all that bright in any subject really but especially potions and defense. They failed to retain anything, which is apparent, since I taught your class about the properties and characteristics of fiend fire just last year. I suppose I am merely surprised that it took natural selection this long to eliminate one or the both of them."

Hermione shot him a pointed look at his seeming disregard for the loss of a human life. Severus clarified, "It's not that I don't find it troubling, Hermione. I am saddened to here of it, truly, but I have become somewhat desensitized to death after this year, simply because one has to desensitize oneself in order to do a job like mine."

She seemed somewhat satisfied by his answer. "After that, we made out way through the battle and to the underground passage to find You-Know-Who here in hopes of destroying the Horcrux contained by the snake."

Severus, who had been listening intently, arched his brows thoughtfully, "that damned snake; I knew it to be true, even Albus seemed to suggest it, although he never said it directly. If he had, it may have made things easier for us all," grumbled Severus.

At the modest return of his infamous snark, Hermione couldn't suppress a smile. "Perhaps, he just had a hunch and didn't want us chasing windmills?" Hermione suggested, nuzzling his shoulder.

Severus smirked, "Can you stop always giving others the benefit of the doubt? I am trying to be cynical here."

Hermione looked up at his face and saw beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead and soak the roots of his hair. She moved into a kneeling position beside him and felt his forehead with the back of her hand to gauge his temperature. His skin felt hot to her touch, and she noticed the fever begin to glaze his eyes.

"We need to get you out of here, to someplace safe where you can receive proper care." Hermione stressed.

Severus regarded her with sad skepticism, "Hermione," he gently began, "I am a much-loathed death eater and the disgraced headmaster to the children of many parents whose ire I've provoked by association with the Carrows and the Dark Lord. You are the only living soul who knows the truth of my loyalty and my status as a redoubled agent; everyone else is none-the-wiser and in no hurry to be proven wrong. As a result, I will be denied treatment across the wizarding world, and the dark and sinister nature of my injury, having been inflicted by a living Horcrux, ensures that no muggle hospital will touch me—or even be able to aide me."

Hermione paused and bowed her head in thought as she realized the truth of his words; she looked up at him again, with her spirits perking, "I can brew potions at or above NEWT-level to treat your symptoms, and with you there to give me guidance and cover the areas I'm not so versed in, we don't necessarily require the help of a conventional medical institution." She suggested hopefully.

Severus regarded her curiously for a moment. "What?" Hermione demanded impatiently, angered by his non-response to her plan.

Severus chose his words carefully and spoke slowly, "There is a price on my head, Hermione—likely a high one, at that. As I said before, I am a death eater, and there's literally nothing worse one can be labeled as in the current state of things. Not only that, I am about to be unmasked as a spy, which will provoke my fellow death eaters to act in retribution, with neither side claiming me or offering me protection."

"That's just it though," said Hermione, as if it was obvious what she was implying to him.

Severus tilted his head questioningly. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you're likely to be unmasked as an order spy, which means that you'll be lauded and treated as a hero in the very near future. You will have nothing to fear."

Waiting for her to realize on her own the naiveté of her statement, Severus paused; when she didn't speak up, he sighed, "Hermione, you don't understand. One witness is no witness at all. As intelligent and scrupulous and reliable as you are, you are still only one person, one person with a preexisting attachment to me that renders your testimony less valid on principle."

"What about the memories you gave Harry? Surely he is a star witness? Not to mention, Dumbledore's portrait knows everything and can therefore vouch for your continued involvement with the Order." Hermione reminded him.

Severus couldn't bring himself to look her in eyes, eyes full of hope and belief in the goodness and reasonableness of others. "Those are all good points, but I'm afraid that the memories I gave to Potter are ones that I do not want to share with the curious populace; I loathe the fact that he's even privy to them, I certainly don't want the world's judging eyes analyzing my memories. I hope to have the vial destroyed once Potter receives the important information contained in them." Severus told her a half truth—with Potter's inevitable demise, he would obviously be unable to give testimony on Severus's behalf, and the whereabouts of the vial would therefore be unknown.

"And while yes, Albus can back up my statements, there are many who are reluctant to take the word of a portrait, even one of a revered wizard like Dumbledore. There are many who remain incredibly skeptical of the process of immortalizing a headmaster in portrait form and the intricacies of self that process involves. The amount of sentience and the amount of credence, legal or otherwise, we should ascribe to and accept from living portraits is a matter of intense debate, and where legalities are concerned, the word of a portrait is not yet permissible in the court of the Wizengamot."

"Well, even if it doesn't hold up in a courtroom, the truth will be out there, and Dumbledore's influence and enduring popularity means that a great number of wizards and witches will believe his word is the law and the honest truth, sans any ministry spin," Hermione argued.

"I have a long-standing history of ill-repute that is as infamous as my name itself. Once an idea or assertion is circulated enough or seemingly proven true on all appearances enough times, the less chance exists that people will even be receptive to new information. Just like you and I, most others hate to be proven wrong. Rather than admit they made a mistake in their judgment, people will cleave harder to their original ideas and opinions," Severus explained.

When Hermione made as if to pipe in with another hopeful anecdote, Severus spoke overtop of her, "Hermione, you are so incredibly brilliant and so compassionate that every time I think you've reached the pinnacle of good treatment of others, you ultimately and unfailingly surpass that marker, again and again. You are so intelligent, Hermione, truly, but you are also so hopelessly naïve that I'm having trouble making you understand, or perhaps I'm not conveying my point well enough." He tried to pad the middle insult with true and sincere compliments, but Hermione still shrunk away from him with a wounded look that cut him in turn.

After a moment, he saw anger flare in her brown eyes like amber sparks, but she managed to keep it tempered, "I'm not naïve. You are cynical and dismissive of my valid points for lack of wont to try." She retorted.

Severus grappled for a response but struggled with the task. "Hermione, I'm simply being pragmatic. When I arrived here tonight, I knew I was placing my life in precarious, volatile hands." He hoped she would infer the rest to save him from having to say it aloud.

"Such a brave man," she whispered sadly, "brave enough to stare death and its harbinger in the face, yet too afraid to face the alternative."

Daring her to use the word "coward," his eyes flared dangerously. "Silly girl, you're playing with fire," he hissed lowly.

"Maybe I know how to handle it." She replied with a far-away expression more common to Luna Lovegood than to her. "You don't frighten me, Severus," she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder and caressing his face as he looked away from her.

"I don't wish to," he murmured against her hand.

"You wish to intimidate me, to get me to back down."

"When has that ever worked for me with you?" Severus asked, rolling his eyes.

"Exactly!" Hermione beamed, before she turned to look pensively out the only window in the room that wasn't boarded-up.

"12 Grimmauld Place." She stated as if it were an ingenious idea.

"What?" She couldn't tell if his voice revealed more surprise or more contempt.

"It's deserted now—all the Order members are here." She thought aloud.

"And it's shielded and armed to the nines, especially against my entry. And Kreacher won't stand for a half-blood and a muggle-born waltzing in to stay for awhile!"

Defeated, Hermione hung her head with a look that pained him.

"Hermione, let's think—there must be somewhere else, somewhere safer for me…for us," he whispered, attempting to convince her. She looked at him with a hopeful smile, brightened by his implied consent of her plan.

"This is incredibly foolish," Severus commented plainly, as if to himself, although he didn't refuse to accompany her.

"What do you have to lose, Severus?" Hermione asked.

"I have nothing to lose," she raised her eyebrows as if to say, "see?" before Severus continued, "I'm not finished—I have nothing to lose, yes, but you—you have everything to lose. This is a task I do not wish to burden you with. You have your entire life ahead of you if the Dark Lord is defeated, which you seem to think is a foregone conclusion. Ignore your impulse and think rationally, I implore you."

"Severus, stop. It's not a burden if it's a task I take on willingly, knowing all that entails." She argued, hurt by his ability to cast her off so easily in a way.

"But you don't know what you're signing on for or all it entails," Severus protested.

"After all I've been through, I do not take things lightly or thoughtlessly. If this war has taught me anything, it's what's really important in life. I want to be with you, Severus—there's no place I'd rather be than by your side, no matter the difficulties we'll encounter. I'm coming with you, whether you like it or not. Now, stop acting like a martyr and think of somewhere we can go."

At her surprisingly ill-timed cheek, Severus appeared a tad taken aback, but he smirked nonetheless. After a moment, she noticed that Severus looked as if he had a suggestion yet was unwilling to say it aloud, "Where, Severus? Spit it out."

"There are some things I need to retrieve from my house in Cokeworth. Perhaps, we can spend the night there and decide where to go next."

Hermione eyed him apprehensively, her misgivings clear upon her face, "Won't that be the first place the other Death Eaters look if they discover you're really alive?"

"I can quickly put it under the Fidelius charm, if you will consent to being secret-keeper." He suggested.

"Of course!" she proclaimed, hugging him. "That's perfect. Can you use side-along apparition to get us there?" she asked tentatively.

"I can try." He smiled weakly.

Hermione procured a traveling cloak form her beaded bag and threw it over his head, tying it loosely around the neck. She withdrew some gauze and adhesive and set to work to cover his wounds. She tore off the last piece of tape with her teeth and applied it over the gauze before buttoning the top few buttons of his collar apologetically, "I'm sorry; I know it's probably excruciating."

"We are both covered in blood," _my blood,_ Severus thought as he reminded her, clutching a handful of her hair that was matted with blood from where she'd draped herself across him when she'd thought him dead.

Hermione paced the floor for a few minutes attempting a few cleansing charms. "If you find a cleansing charm that works for blood I'd like to be the first person you tell of it," Severus said grimly.

"It's nighttime. I hope to avoid being seen by anyone, but if we are spotted, I doubt they will be able to distinguish that it's blood."

The corner of Severus's mouth twitched in quiet disagreement. Hermione re-corked the empty vial of phoenix tears so as to leave no evidence and placed it in her bag before rising to her feet, where she offered her hand to Severus, who took it and managed to stand by leaning against a wall, hitting his head on the low ceilings, which were strung with cobwebs that got stuck in his black hair.

"You have to hold tight," Severus murmured, so quietly that she failed to register what he'd said.

"What's that?" She asked, taking his arm. Severus looked down at her, eyes flitting over her face, before he threw his arms around her and repeated, "You must hold on tight." She nodded wrapped her arms tightly around him. Closing his eyes, Severus focused intently on visualizing his destination and performed the spell to disapparate them to Spinner's End.


	11. Vipera Evanesca

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm progressively editing and reorganizing the story, so if you recognize some of the wording from an earlier chapter it's because I'm still working things out and figuring out where everything fits. I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one is probably the one you've all been waiting for, if you're anything like me, anyway—lemons!

**XI. Vipera Evanesca**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Struggling to block out the pain, Severus closed his eyes and focused intently on visualizing his destination before he performed the spell to disapparate them. The experience of unnaturally hurtling oneself through time and space reminded Severus of an article he'd read many years earlier about a diving bell accident where one of the workers perished due to a catastrophic incidence of explosive decompression; when he imagined suffering such a fate, he'd likened it to apparition and the intense and fluctuating pressure—the feeling of being crushed in direct contrast with the moments of feeling utterly weightless—that unfortunately accompanied it.

When Severus opened his eyes, the town of Cokeworth spun dizzily into view, and he loosened his grip on Hermione and slid down her until he fell to the cobblestones on all fours, where he promptly and violently vomited at her feet. Hermione bent down and placed a comforting hand on him, rubbing his back as he coughed and gagged and continued to retch.

"I…haven't…vomited from disapparating since I was a schoolboy." Severus choked out between gasps. He spit on the sidewalk to rid himself of the taste of sick in his mouth as he attempted to make it to his feet again, but he failed, wobbling until he fell backwards, his legs splayed as he sat sprawled upon the ground.

Hermione knelt on her haunches and supported him into a seated position, where he breathed raggedly, drenched in sweat. She helped him up, and they proceeded across a brick arch bridge. An oily sheen glazed the surface of the river flowing below, its banks overgrown with brush and strewn with litter. The air reeked of soot and sulfur, irritating her nose, and the pungent smell of the river seemed to hang suspended in the fog. Most of the houses appeared unoccupied, with broken or boarded-up widows—many were spray painted with warnings to "keep out" or had eviction notices nailed to their doors.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Hermione asked carefully as she took in her surroundings.

"Yes." Severus replied curtly as he shot her a sidelong glare.

Fog hung low on the town, curling about the houses and diffusing the yellow light cast by the few working streetlamps to eerie effect. Once across the bridge, she helped him slump onto a nearby bench so he could rest for a moment, while she ventured a few paces through the fog, where she watched as row upon row of terraced houses seemed to appear from the mist and expand into the dark with bleak uniformity.

When she returned to sit with Severus, she asked, "Which street do you live on?"

"Spinner's End—it's the last house." Severus answered quietly, weakly pointing in the direction of said street.

"Come, Severus, or the protections of the Fidelius charm will do us little good." Hermione offered him her outstretched hand to help him rise to his feet and then her arm to steady him before they proceeded in the direction he'd indicated.

"There," Severus inclined his head toward the street sign denoting "Spinner's End."

Severus grew weaker and less coherent by the moment, leading him to stumble for the remainder of the way even with her assistance, and she felt immense relief when they reached his front steps. Severus leaned against the exterior wall of his house, with its façade constructed of common yellow bricks grayed by years of exposure to the rampant pollution endemic of Cokeworth.

She reached into the pocket of his robe to withdraw his wand, which she handed to him encouragingly. Severus pressed the tip of his wand to the keyhole and performed the nonverbal spell to unlock the door. After she helped him over the threshold and shut the door, Severus turned on a floor lamp and a banker's lamp atop his desk with a flick of his wand. Hermione urged him toward the sofa, where he finally lay down with a groan; she unlaced his scuffed leather boots to take them off, sickened by the sticky mess of copper-smelling blood and grit she found ground into the grooves of his outsoles.

While Severus could still speak, Hermione urged him to perform the Fidelius charm. "This is not a decision you should undertake lightly, Hermione," Severus cautioned, "At some point, we will have to leave Spinner's End, and when we do, the Death Eaters that escape imprisonment will be waiting on tenterhooks to force the secret out of you by any means necessary."

"Severus, we don't have time for this!" Hermione cried, and Severus acquiesced, as she had a point.

He was reminded of the unbreakable vow he took in that very spot as he recited the incantation, “ _Alium silere quod voles, primus sile,_ ” while performing deft and delicate wand-work, as if he were drawing a circular Greek key in midair. When Hermione consented to being secret keeper, a glowing starburst-like light appeared from the tip of his wand, hovering briefly before floating into her chest, near her heart, where it disappeared with an aureate burst of light that made her entire body glow. The sensation reminded her of a childhood notion—she felt like she’d locked her lips and thrown away the key.

She knew she had to set to work quickly. She shivered as she felt a downdraft from the chimney, which carried with it the distinct smell of creosote. Quickly, she threw some logs into the fireplace and set them alight with her bluebell flames so she could heat a cauldron.

"Where's your home potions kit?" Hermione asked hurriedly.

"Cupboard under the stairs," Severus murmured, blinking in and out of consciousness.

She darted into the kitchen, where she found the cupboard he had referenced padlocked. From his recumbent position on the sofa, Severus aimed a spell at the lock, and it came unchained with a click. Inside, an array of chemistry glassware occupied the largest shelf, while the smaller ones above it held ingredients in vials of varying sizes and shapes, all labeled with the precise scrawl she recognized from years' worth of parchments Severus had returned marked up in the same handwriting.

On the floor of his makeshift potions store sat the cauldron she sought; she waddled back to the fireplace, struggling to carry the heavy stone pot. She returned to select the ingredients that were right for her purpose, which she plucked from the shelves, vials clinking against each other in her arms. She placed a fragment of a basilisk fang into a pestle to grind down with a mortar, shaking the resultant powder into the cauldron.

Using the ingredients at her disposal, she strove to create a chemical simulation of the process used to obtain antivenin, which involved injecting a horse or other suitable animal with venom until they produced antibodies that would then be extracted in the form of serum. When the potion required time to simmer, Hermione searched the house for the bathroom, which she located upstairs through the larger of the two bedrooms. She grabbed a washcloth and soaked it in cold water before rushing back to Severus's side, where she pressed the cloth to his forehead.

Severus startled at the cold and gazed up at her deliriously. Sweat made stray hairs cling to his face, and she brushed them from his eyes with a sad smile before returning to the cauldron bubbling on the fire. Once complete, she bottled her experimental antivenin and eyed it warily, holding it up to the light to examine it, but her abilities gave her confidence, so she administered it to him after going through a brief risk versus reward analysis in her head.

She squeezed onto the couch and placed his head in her lap so she could tilt the potion down his throat; he choked on its bitter taste but managed to keep it down, thankfully. She scrubbed the cauldron free of any residue, and set to work again—this time on a hybrid draught of her own design, for both pain and for reducing his fever. First, she mulled poppy seed capsules and tapped the grainy dust into the crucible, bringing the slurry to a boil; on a wooden cutting board, she finely chopped birch roots and white willow bark with a kitchen knife, scraping them into the cauldron with the flat side of its blade. She added dried black elder flowers and leaves of lemon balm for good measure, with a final splash of bergamot oil. She hoped the aromatic herbs would mask the crude, bitter taste of the laudanum-like base.

This potion, light on magical ingredients, matured quickly; after briefly allowing it to cool and straining it, she dipped out a ladle-full into a goblet. She roused Severus, and he accepted the goblet from her with a shaky hand and drank it without a word before he promptly passed out again.

While she waited for the potion to take effect, she surveyed his sitting room, admiring the black walnut bookshelves lining every wall, full of handsomely bound volumes that left his home redolent of the library. The room smelled pleasantly of Severus—the way the smell of his skin reminded her of petrichor and the faint herbal scent, reminiscent of cloves, that always clung to his robes together mingled with the smell of leather and old books; the result proved even more intoxicating to her than the fumes of the love potion she had inhaled the previous year.

By the sitting room window, he'd situated his desk, also piled high with books—crowding the additional items atop it, a black typewriter, a pair of gold scales, a standish of black feathered quills and an inkwell, and a banker's lamp with a green glass shade. She studied her reflection in an oblong mirror in a black beveled frame that hung above the mantle, noticing her hair had frizzed from hovering over a steaming cauldron. Crown molding that matched the wood of his bookshelves and other subtle structural enhancements lent the place an air of elegance totally lacking in pretension.

She noticed two small picture frames on a middle bookshelf. One photo depicted a non-smiling woman with dark, deep-set eyes and thin black hair, which framed her pale face and accented her severe features; she held her hands close to her body the way she noticed Severus often did—she recognized the woman from the newspaper clipping that she'd unearthed from the Hogwart's archives as Eileen Prince. She picked up the other photo, which she assumed showed Severus's father, to examine it more closely.

A familiar-looking man with a roman nose stared back at her through sad, light-colored eyes with an inscrutable expression and a heavy, furrowed brow—the man jutted out his chin with an echo of a self-confidence that had faded long before the taking of the photo. Severus greatly resembled his father, and his father's shorter hair and work-hardened features distinguished him from his son only superficially. He wore his father's facial features like a Columbina mask—the sad eyes and Roman nose—while he shared his mother's complexion, as well as her eye and hair color.

She returned the photograph to its place on the shelf, contemplating the lives of Severus's parents and his own childhood in that very house. She knelt down to gauge his fever with the back of her hand, finding that although it had lessened, it remained dangerously high. "Severus," she shook him gently to rouse him, "Let's get you to bed."

Severus sat up, murmuring something incoherent, and Hermione helped him off the couch, urging him to lean on her to redistribute his weight as she led him upstairs to his bedroom. Hermione helped him into his bed, sitting on the side of it to set and arrange vials of the potion she'd made for him on the nightstand. When she made as if to leave the room, Severus threw his arm around her waist to keep her there, "Sleep here…with me," he implored quietly, and Hermione smiled into her hand before crawling over him to the other side of the bed.

She lay on her side, facing away from him to look out the diamond-paned window parallel with the bed. She looked out over the city's silhouette and the river that wound through it, a ribbon of silver; in the distance, an industrial chimney loomed high above the rest of the buildings to touch the moon in a way that she found strangely beautiful. When she found it difficult to shut her eyes for an extended period of time, she buried her face into the pillow with a sigh, settling in for another long night without sleep and the fresh new outlook it afforded in the morning upon waking.

In his fevered state, Severus dreamt of Hermione gagged and bound and suspended in midair, like Charity Burbage had been. The Dark Lord's cold, clear laugh snaked up Severus's spine with an icy shiver as he spoke of Hermione's muggle parentage to the jeering gathering of Death Eaters. The Dark Lord hurled a stunning spell at Severus before gleefully unleashing a volley of painful curses on Hermione; he relished in watching Severus fall apart, as he was somehow paralyzed to intervene or stop him or do anything except sob and scream—until Severus saw the dreaded burst of luminescent green, the curse so bright and final that it burned the scene forever upon his retinas and in his mind. The Dark Lord finished her off with so little disregard she may as well have been something inanimate, before he instructed the snake to gorge itself upon her fresh corpse.

"This is what happens to blood traitors and turncoats. You underestimated me, Severus; you thought I would never find out that you desired one of Harry Potter's co-conspirators, the filthy little mudblood girl, and if you had died with honor where I left you to lie, maybe I never would have, but, as it stands, you are at my mercy now, and I can't say I'm feeling very merciful at all." The Dark Lord regarded Severus with disgust as he lay sobbing, prostrate on the floor, before kicking him so hard in the side that it knocked the breath out of him, although he barely registered it or the pain in his hysterical state.

The Dark Lord seized Severus's left arm and violently jerked him up from the floor into a kneeling position. With a hatred that rivaled his former master's, Severus met the Dark Lord's eyes, which glowed like still-burning embers. The Dark Lord withdrew his wand from his robes, and Severus hung his head for what he assumed was his forthcoming execution, a welcome cessation of his mental anguish. Instead, the Dark Lord gripped Severus's left wrist and pressed the tip of his wand into the center of the Dark Mark.

It felt as if the Dark Lord had thrust a branding iron into a blue-hot fire and instead of a quick stamp, he heavily pressed the iron to Severus's wrist until he was screaming and shaking under the pain. Through the unrelenting torture, Severus swore he could smell his own flesh cooking and burning beneath the brand. Strangely, Hermione's voice reached him somehow; it seemed surreal in his nightmare where her death felt like a terrifying and irreversible reality.

Her voice sounded as if she was speaking to him underwater, although it grew clearer as he blinked reality into view again. Someone's hand shook his shoulder roughly, startling him into attack mode where he thrashed at his unknown assumed assailant until his sleep-slowed brain acclimated itself back to reality, allowing him to finally come to his senses. The excruciating pain of the invisible brand crossed with Severus over the threshold between dream and reality and contributed to his mounting confusion as he scrambled to ascertain its source.

Hermione stared down at him, her face stricken with a look of pure panic, "Severus, what's wrong?! Are you alright?!" she asked frantically, fear straining her voice, as she cupped his forehead with a shaky hand to make a rough determination of the level of the fever that was so clearly influencing his dreams and his perception of reality, as well as impairing his grasp of the division between the two.

Severus tightly locked the fingers of his left hand into a trembling fist, desperately clutching his forearm with his opposite hand. "The mark is burning, Hermione." He hissed through clenched teeth. Quickly, Hermione unbuttoned and rolled up his sleeve to reveal the mark, which appeared to glow orange and black, like embers reduced to dying in the fire.

Flabbergasted, Hermione stared blankly at the mark as her thoughts moved rapidly to find a way to ease Severus's pain, a process that yielded only a few scant ideas, all of little merit; out of necessity, she settled on the most promising one among them. Severus sat on the edge of the bed, buckling in pain, his face contorted in a familiar way—the way Harry's did when his scar burned. She knelt beside him on the bed and threw her arms around him; he leaned into her embrace, his eyes tightly closed against the pain shooting through his left forearm.

Hermione pressed her lips against his ear and took care to speak clearly and calmly to him, "Severus, focus on my voice. I want you to pick a happy memory, a powerful memory that contains a lot of detail." She paused for a moment to give him time to select a memory before continuing, asking softly, "Have you picked a memory?"

Severus nodded, wincing and she could feel the tension in his muscles as he held them stone taut. "Okay, I want you to visualize the memory in your mind—much like you would prior to producing a Patronus, just without the magical component. It's essentially a form of meditation, or one could liken it to the learning of occlumency."

"Hermione," he managed to speak with difficulty, "Please, spare me the lesson." Hermione blushed in silent agreement and continued, "Describe the memory to me out loud and in as much detail as possible." She instructed, squeezing him reassuringly in her warm embrace.

"Uh…" Severus stammered, which was very unlike him; the usually careful and composed man shuddered as the pain intensified, murmuring impassioned pleas, all begging for the pain to stop, and spitting foul obscenities in turn. Severus attempted to control his breathing to help dull the pain, which he managed with some success, although the improvement it lent was nearly negligible.

Hermione nuzzled his shoulder and tried again, "Start with simply telling me which memory you chose." She implored.

Severus took a deep, measured breath and quietly answered, "The cottage…on the beach…that night I came to see you there." Severus's fist twitched as the mark flared and continued to burn him. At the revelation of his chosen memory, her lips quirked into a shy smile as she wondered distractedly what that choice meant, if anything.

Suddenly, Severus made a pained noise, followed by a litany of curse words he muttered under his breath, which shook her from her contemplative daze. "Ok," she whispered as she began rubbing his back, "Tell me about that night—in detail."

"But you were there," Severus protested, leaning into her touch.

"I know, but I'd like to hear you describe it."

Severus sighed before honoring her request, "You were there in your nightclothes, and I could smell the sea lavender and your hair. And I kissed you, but then I stopped. And I really didn't want to stop." She saw a twitch of a smile on that last line.

He continued to focus on expounding on the memory. The amount of detail Severus remembered and thus included in his description awed Hermione, and she felt a pang of tenderness for him and his touching and beautiful words. The earlier idea she had decided to act upon was surprisingly effective, as Severus's formerly labored breathing had steadied and his earlier mask indicative of extreme pain had lifted, replaced with periodic wincing that occurred only when the pain would unexpectedly and unpredictably spike.

His jaw-line had remained taut, although talking of and elaborating on his chosen memory required him to drastically ease up on forcibly clenching and grinding his teeth. He continued to weakly cradle his left arm; ground zero of the pain, the mark formed the epicenter that positively radiated immense and crippling agony. He'd been branded with it over a decade earlier; yet the present pain was so acute that it far surpassed the pain he'd experienced when he was originally marked with it.

Diverting his singular focus on the pain to Hermione's soothing voice and then towards forming a detailed verbal picture of his memory had served to successfully distract him from the all-consuming and fully crippling nature of the burning pain, but although this strategy muted the pain it remained severe—at times flaring excruciatingly to steal his full focus once again.

Suddenly, Severus's body doubled-over and he rested his head between his knees, holding his left forearm outward, away from his body, as if it might contaminate the rest of him or strangle him like Wormtail's silver hand. He physically felt a flash of fire fully overcome him, the irradiating sensation felt painfully hot and suffocating; Severus closed his eyes to prevent the sweat that now streamed down his face from entering them, and the suffocating effect of the hot flash joined forces with a series of powerful waves of pure and incapacitating nausea that battered him until he was dry-heaving and imploring any divine entity that may or may not exist to grant him mercy and draw the painful and confusing experience to a close.

Hermione was dumbstruck, which was an unfamiliar state of being for her, one in which her mind went blank and no ideas presented themselves in the form of thoughts. She gently rubbed Severus's back and pressed another cold compress to his forehead and whispered encouraging nothings that she doubted he could even hear, and she fetched him a lined wastebasket that she thrust at his feet.

Severus now yelled in response to the unflinching pain, mostly exclamations and unintelligible groans that she assumed formed words, although she couldn't distinguish them. Severus twitched violently and cowed to the pain, every muscle in his body under such strain that every part of him seemed to tremble.

Suddenly, Severus paused mid-sentence and sat up as his eyes shot open, no longer wincing, stretching his sore spine, and he moved his fingers before finally relaxing the vise-grip he'd been forcibly holding. As the pain abruptly and completely lifted, Severus's chest heaved with his breathing, as he gasped desperately to take in the much-needed air he'd been deprived of by the weighty feeling that had been crushing his ribcage and lungs to restrict his breathing.

Severus frantically turned to Hermione, eyes wide with a peculiar mingling of confusion and relief, and they regarded each other with equally puzzled expressions and raised eyebrows. Hermione gingerly took his left hand between both of hers and stroked his fingers comfortingly as he panted and sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his free hand. Severus threw his head back and let himself feel awash with the immense euphoric relief that followed the inexplicable cessation of the pain, basking in it silently until he heard Hermione utter a sharp gasp, followed by her shouting, "Look!" she pointed frenziedly at the mark, and Severus examined it closely to figure out the reason for her excited exclamation.

Then, he saw it, and leaned back in awe as together they watched the lines of the snake begin to disappear like a disintegrating lit fuse until the image removed itself entirely, leaving only a ruddied and slightly raised scar of its outline where hard, black, permanent-looking lines had been only seconds before. Hermione watched Severus run his fingertips lightly over the scar with a look of amazement and shock; her thoughts came to her in furious succession as she considered the implications of what had just occurred, her mind racing to a startling conclusion that stunned her in its magnitude.

They sat silently for a few moments, as Hermione looked into Severus's searching eyes until she saw confirmation that they'd both reached the same, earth-shattering conclusion. "This can only mean one thing," Hermione braved, "that the Dark Lord has been defeated by Harry—it's the only logical explanation for the mark disappearing like that." She spoke quickly and excitedly, her eyes wider than Severus had ever seen them.

Severus grappled with the aftershocks of the realization she'd voiced, wary of letting his guard down or allowing happiness to tentatively resurface to his psyche—he did not want to be celebrating on false pretenses—but Hermione was correct, there really existed no other logical explanation. The enormity of the implications of the event were staggering, as they loomed dauntingly in Severus's mind, one stacked upon another stacked upon another until his mind felt like the room of hidden things, and he couldn't visualize or see the summit.

Hermione gently squeezed his hand as she waited patiently for his shell-shocked reverie to fade away, observing his reaction as he stared blankly forward with tired eyes. Severus fixated on the potential implications for him in a world without Voldermort, silently obsessing until he was spinning out of control in a whirlwind of thought and prediction.

Finally, Severus slowly looked down into Hermione's face, a small and reassuring smile playing upon her lips, and he paled as he whispered to himself, "Neither can live if the other survives…"


	12. In Quiet Desperation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ok, the M rating definitely applies from this chapter onward, so if you are averse to such sexual content, proceed with caution. I hope you all like this chapter.

**XII. In Quiet Desperation**

" _Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way…" – Time (Pink Floyd)_

_By: Calliope Confetti_

"What did you say?" Hermione asked, concerned when she noticed that the little color he possessed had drained from his pale face. Hesitantly, Severus grasped her hands and tried to meet her gaze, but he found it difficult, like staring into the sun. "Hermione, I have something I must tell you."

Hermione's pallor matched his own as she turned to face him, sitting cross-legged on the bed in a child-like way that made him even more uncomfortable. "The vial of memories I gave Potter contained a vital piece of information, information Albus instructed me to only reveal at a very critical moment, when the Dark Lord was at his weakest."

"What information?" She asked sharply, seemingly intuiting what he was about to say.

"Hermione…the prophecy said that 'neither can live if the other survives,' so that means…if the Dark Lord is truly gone, then…Potter is too." He longed to tell her in a gentle, more delicate way, but he couldn't find the words.

"You knew?" She breathed. In that moment, she was painfully reminded of the fact that, in spite of all they'd been through together, they were still practically strangers. "You knew, and you didn't tell me?" Hermione repeated, making a pained noise. Severus moved to embrace her, but she pushed him away. "I'm going to take a shower," she managed, her voice breaking.

"Hermione, come here," Severus implored, grasping her wrist, but once again, she jerked away from him and proceeded to the bathroom where she shut the door, shutting him out in the process.

She peeled off her clothes, which suddenly felt unbearably imprisoning—her jeans were ripped and stiff with dry blood, and she wondered how she'd stood to wear them so long. She stepped into the shower and washed herself; the hot water burned the many scrapes and cuts she'd suffered in the attack on the castle, and she felt the dull ache of bruises all over her body. She longed to wash away the last year along with the dust and lake silt—the blood, sweat, and tears—wishing the pain were circling the drain too. She slid down the tiled wall to the shower floor, where she hugged her knees and buried her head in the cradle of her arms.

Severus heard her sobs, which anguished him, but he didn't know if it was appropriate to go to her—or if she even wanted him there. His concern for her had muted his own thoughts on Potter's death, but as he sat alone, he lost himself in contemplation. A man of his word, he delivered on his promise, all he ever sought to do; now, all that lay ahead was uncertainty and unknown, and Severus was not often uncertain. Years of weighing the merits and demerits of every action and potential reaction or consequence formed dizzying fractals in his mental multi-verse, every one linked by a common, unbreakable thread of self-assurance.

Since he was a young man, he'd been singularly dedicated to the Order, living under varying degrees of danger and constant vigilance, so that without the ever-present stress bearing down on him and propelling him constantly forward, hurtling toward the end goal, he felt lost and the silence and the night felt imposing and oppressive. Rationally, he recognized those elements had existed before, always present in the background, but he'd never truly acknowledged or felt their presence.

An object in motion, he had been, thinking his death that night to be the force that would stop cold his forward momentum. Without his automated, calculating, survival-mode induced inertia, he himself became a person again, not just a cog in a plan but a sentient person with desires and wants. The old adage that silence was deafening elucidated itself before him, and the more he focused on the quiet, the louder the result, but he resolved to get reacquainted with it. The thought that he had let Lily down put itself on pause, hanging back unsure as if it were an entity separate from its master, the man who would be disturbed and gutted by it.

Hermione always had a feeling that Harry himself could be a Horcrux, but she repeatedly rebuked herself for thinking it. Yet, in a way, she had almost expected Harry's death, and she had subconsciously prepared herself, bracing herself for the inevitable, so that now, she was unsure how to feel except a sort of numb horror, stranded in an emotional wasteland. She didn't want to talk about it—saying the words would make it real. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare, where her loved ones were being executed with devastating regularity. Out of sheer self-preservation, she'd dammed her guilt, but fissures were forming as the pressure continued to build. If only she'd been there, maybe the outcome would've been different, but she couldn't dwell on that, not now.

A retroactive sense of omniscience seemed to project itself onto all her past memories of the deceased, so that even in memories when she was ignorant of the fact that they were "not long for this world," they appeared marked and faded amongst the others. In her life, it seemed like the ones who had displayed an almost mocking degree of belief in their own invincibility and a duplicitous zest for life—living each moment full-fledged, all-in in a way which almost betrayed the immortal illusion they'd vested themselves in—were the ones who met their inevitable curtain-call too early, like Fred and Harry.

Naturally, transitioning from thinking about either of them as anything but so absolutely alive was both challenging and distressing, especially when she wished she could put her own life on pause, refusing to embrace its fleetingness; it was easier to just keep pretending she had all the time in the world, always knowing and burying the truth—observing the blur, fastidious and careful as ever. _Not to say they have it right_ —she thought, but it was difficult for her to picture the proverbial final nails being hammered into Fred's coffin without some prank-Lazarus reveal accompanied by that same disregard and comedic reasoning.

Eventually, she felt she'd drained the well of her tears, and she couldn't cry any longer, although that aching feeling in her eyes persisted with the sensation of crying. She wanted to scream with the hurt pent up inside her. She didn't want to confront this new reality, where everything had changed, and she wondered if she'd ever feel normal again. She looked up at the ceiling, mentally looking through it to the heavens above, wondering if such a place existed. She whispered to herself and to Harry, "I'm so sorry," before dropping her head again, closing her eyes emphatically. She continued to sit on the floor, wracked with dry sobs, until the water ran ice cold, and she felt emotionally drained.

She turned off the spigot and wrapped a towel around herself, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, just thinking. On autopilot, she brushed her wet tresses and slipped on a light nightgown. In the mirror, she didn't recognize the broken person who stared back at her, with dark circles around their eyes. She stalled, leaning against the wall—she didn't want to talk to Severus, and she had a feeling that he didn't particularly want to talk either, but she knew he'd give it an earnest try, believing it was what she wanted.

Finally, she exited the bathroom and walked into the bedroom with empty gliding steps. Severus made as if to speak, but she placed her fingers to his lips, and he seemed to understand. She curled onto his lap and he gathered her into his embrace, settling in for the length of her catharsis. It seemed the well of her tears miraculously replenished itself as they quietly began to leak from her eyes again.

After a time, she grew conscious of his fingertips pressed taut to her back and the living warmth of his body—with her head buried against his chest, she could hear his rhythmic heartbeat. She nuzzled his chest, hearing his pulse quicken, and at that moment, she realized that she craved him intensely. In fulfilling her long-held desire for him, she wanted the physical comfort and closeness as much as the affirmation of life and vitality, triumph through primal instinct, engaging in the antithesis of death. She wanted him to lavish her body, her youthful tangibility, with his own to keep her from disappearing. Her mind continued to oscillate between overwhelming grief and overpowering lust, with twinges of guilt over the latter.

The depth of her grief concerned Severus, who continued to hold her as she cried. He kissed the freckles on her tear-stained face, tasting salt. She glanced up at him, and he watched the look in her expressive eyes intensify and smolder with a heavy-lidded lust with flashes of second thoughts—over the inappropriate timing and the taboo of sex and grief—which made her look away from him. He felt a touch of shame when he remembered the thought that he could now fully have her was among the first that came to mind upon realizing that Potter had succeeded in defeating the Dark Lord. When she looked away again, he caressed her face and softly kissed her in profile, winding his fingers through her hair to urge her to look at him. Then, seizing the moment, he claimed her lips in a heavy kiss that wiped out all her remaining apprehension; she threw her arms around him and settled on his lap with purpose. The sensual, sinuous way she engaged him threatened his composure as he grabbed her hungrily, pulling her flush against him.

She drew a quiet moan from him when she twisted on his lap, leading him to roll her onto her back in response. Severus's raw need filled him—his self-imposed asceticism had been easy to maintain until he became reacquainted with Hermione, but now all he'd held back over the years consumed him as he began to touch her. The fact that it was no holds barred dawned upon him slowly through his sheer disbelief that the woman he wanted so badly was now wrapped up in his arms. Severus trailed his hands down her sides and thighs before pushing her nightgown up to expose her most intimate areas for his viewing. When he ran his hands over her hips, his breath hitched in his throat when he found that she had neglected to put on any knickers underneath.

When he caught the vulpine look in her eyes, his mouth went dry upon realizing she'd done it deliberately. She could feel the hunger in his stance, all his muscles taut and wanting, ready to spring with her consent. The ache between her legs pulsed with cramp-like intensity, leaving her knees weak, and she hoped he could see his hunger mirrored in her eyes—she wanted this so badly. He continued his passage, pulling her nightgown over her head and off. He kissed the supple skin of her stomach and nuzzled her pert nipple with his nose before taking it in his mouth. A shiver of arousal tingled up her spine, and she began to work at the buttons of his shirt in earnest as he continued to explore her body with his hands and mouth; he loved the way gooseflesh formed in the wake of his touch, the way her pert nipples grazed his palms and the way her breasts yielded beneath his hands.

Pleasure pulsed within her, intensifying with his increasingly urgent touches as his staunch control began to slip. "How I've longed to have you in my bed..." he whispered silkily. She whimpered when his fingers found her sex, and when he felt her wet and ready for him, he couldn't help but groan against the milky skin of her breast as his stomach clenched with the pressing need to be inside of her. The vibration of his voice, however small, seemed to cause powerful aftershocks that left both her body and her mind begging him to return to the spot she craved. Once his shirt was discarded on the floor, she threw her leg over his thigh and fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, finally freeing him from them.

Aware of his weakened state, he sat up against the headboard and pulled her on top of him. She straddled his lap and stroked him with a sultry look that hit him with a debilitating pang of desire. With her hips poised in invitation, he held her waist, willing her to sink onto his ready lap. When she obliged him, he watched her take his length for the first time, watched her eyelids flutter as she slowly sheathed him, wresting from him a guttural groan. With her echoing her pleasure in response, she closed her eyes, panting as he set her nerves alight, her body responding with ripples of delight upon finally feeling him inside of her, and his raw response to the same seemed to clench her stomach in a vise. Leaning against her forehead, he gripped her thighs and held her there to slow her, the sensation threatening to overcome him in seconds. With her name on his breath his lips grazed hers, and he relished in the resplendent feel of her—the warmth of her body in his arms and the warm slickness that enveloped him inside of her.

He moved in to hungrily kiss and nip at her neck, which she'd bared to him in invitation, as he clutched her hips and helped her move against him. Hermione's moan sounded almost pained as he focused his attentions on the sensitive spot near her collarbones. She began rocking on his lap, her movements maddeningly slow at first until she found her rhythm. Even with a driving need behind it, they came together in a languorous dance with their passion ever-thrumming in time, until she writhed on his lap, lips moist and parted, brows knitted in concentration as she focused on the feeling pulsing inside of her. When she lovingly studied the unguarded look of pleasure on his face, the quiet sounds of his groans of pleasure and labored breathing heightened her arousal further still.

She lifted off him until just the tip of his member was inside her before deeply and fully sheathing him. Grappling with his composure, he groaned and dug his fingernails into her hips in a way that made her gasp with the exquisite mingling of pleasure and pain. "Oh, Hermione." He lowered his head to take her swollen nipple in his mouth, and he felt the frisson of arousal course through her as pleasure reverberated from her breasts to her center. She took him as deeply as she could, and he groaned more loudly than he intended, lightly taking the pert bud between his teeth. "Severus," she whimpered his name in a way that made him start to come undone.

In the past, he'd chided Gryffindor students for their inability to conceal or control their emotions, but he found himself presently captivated by the way her body language was on display for him to read as voraciously as a favorite book as she moved over him with an occasional kiss. He listened to the moans tremble from her, her hips meeting his with increasing insistence. Locking his arms around her lower back, his panting breaths caressed her earlobe as pleasure mounted within her. He felt her tense and draw him deeper as she neared the edge, until she shuddered with the crescendo and wriggled on him in the throes of her orgasm. With a series of gasps and groans, he held her to him even while her body fought him, as she spasmed on his unbearably hard cock.

Hermione trembled in his arms for a moment and caught her breath, before she began rocking on his lap again with that same deep rhythm. He traced the lovely protrusion of her hipbones with his thumbs before he gripped them with taut fingertips. She engaged him in an absorbing kiss, his hands sliding up and down her back as he groaned against her soft lips and closed his eyes as she drew him ever-closer to the brink. They moved animalistically together, with him holding her more tightly, groaning unabashedly. The delicious ache spread through him until he hit the point of no return, "Hermione," he gasped with a low grunt into her hair. She clutched his shoulders, raking him with her nails as his words formed of their own volition. "Can I, Hermione?" he pressed her firmly against him as he awaited her approval.

She leaned against his forehead and bit her lower lip in her usual titillating way, just before shifting her hips and moving in a manner that did away any pretense of control. When she sank onto his lap a final time, he came with an unintelligible groan, arching to meet her, his movements slowing until they ceased. With a final shiver of pleasure, she'd felt him twitch inside of her and the resultant warm trickle around her thighs. Severus swallowed hard and struggled to take in the reality of what had just occurred. They panted together and exchanged languid kisses intermittently, while their breathing finally slowed. She rested her head on his chest, while he held her and stroked her hair in sleepy silence as they each reflected on the experience they just shared.

Basking in the contentment afforded by the lovely afterglow that followed their mind-blowing lovemaking, he absently drew small circles on her back with his fingertips as she curled more closely against him, nuzzling his chest. Severus kissed the top of her head and looked down at her in adoration, wondering how he possibly managed to attract the fancy of the beautiful and talented girl that now warmed and shared his bed—the girl he'd desperately wanted yet felt that she was out of his reach. He felt awash with gratefulness as he held her and reviewed the odd progression that led to their coupling at this critical juncture. Her touch reminded him of the time he selected his wand at Ollivander's—the channeled energy producing electricity that crackled from hand to wand, the synchronicity that felt sublime, the knowing feeling that no other would suit him.

Images of her lithe form flashed through his mind as he remembered the feel of being inside her—his powerful feelings for her had heightened the physical sensations he felt when they were intimate—and vice versa—in a sublime way that left his body and soul begging for more, for more of the narcotic intoxication and the transcendence, the culmination of strong emotion and driving lust. Hermione's experience with Severus was so powerful that it had shaken her to the core; she grappled with her equilibrium as she lay in his arms, fighting competing emotions that left her confused as to whether she should laugh with the exciting and ecstatically electric effect of their lovemaking or cry with the depth of feeling that threatened to overwhelm her.

She struggled internally as she felt the unstoppable tears wetting and welling in her eyes; she managed to conceal it from Severus. She recognized the fact that she'd never been so forward or so vocal or so enamored with someone before, nor had she ever been this sexually driven, but something about him made her weak in the knees and left her desperately wanting him. She bit her lower lip as she reviewed their tryst in her head—the way his body responded so intensely to her touch, the primal, instinctual thrill of feeling him inside of her and the erotic thought of him coming inside of her so unabashedly, the way he looked at her with such heat and longing that riveted her, as well as the emotion that welled sorely in her stomach after he'd brought her to a shaking orgasm, intensifying her feelings for him.

Her searching eyes scanned the room, as she felt another aching pang of desire as Severus's fingers grazed her breast. Tension strung the silence taut in the room, and willed one of them to speak, to comment on the life-changing moment they'd just experienced. Severus leaned over to kiss her softly, eyes warm and unsure as he studied her face for any indication of her feelings on the subject. Once again, Severus made as if to speak, and Hermione shook her head with a warm smile and pressed her fingers to his lips, before kissing him lightly and nestling against him to try and get some sleep.

The pale sun bathed the room in the antique white light of morning. Hermione stared out the diamond-paned window and over the chimney-topped roofs, with their slate shingles shining in the rain, to look upon the town, which resembled an impressionist painting as dawn's pastels were blurred by the spectral morning mist. She then turned her focus to the horizon beyond, wondering if Severus was right about Harry. He had to be wrong, she thought, because she paled when she thought of the alternative. For the first time since she separated from her friends, she felt the growing cracks in the levee containing her guilt cause it to finally give way, flooding her conscience with it.

She studied Severus's arm draped around her waist, his fingertips just barely grazing her stomach as he appeared to sleep soundly, and she wished she too could enjoy the contentment she felt, yet she barred herself from letting it settle peacefully on her soul to punish herself for essentially abandoning her friends in their hour of need. She knew she'd begun to lapse into illogical thinking in her spell-shocked and sleep-deprived state, but she nonetheless failed to quell the guilt that accompanied it. She felt her tenuous grip on her emotional stability begin to slip, a nerve-wracking realization that troubled her and parried sleep's advances. She attempted to quiet her thoughts so sleep would come, but failed as her mind hummed with worry and the proliferation of questions all centering on the secondary outcome of the war. Finally, in sheer exhaustion, sleep forced itself upon her, and she tossed and turned restlessly until she awoke several hours later.

Hermione stared at the ceiling, still concerned about her friends at Hogwarts; she thought about Harry and Fred and realized logically that there had to be further casualties, but were still more friends among the dead? She felt terrible for hoping they were not, which would mean someone else's loved ones were. She stretched sleepily and lay across Severus to glimpse the clock ticking quietly on the bedside table. The muted, golden light of evening glowed in the small room and she could hear the townspeople mulling about the cobblestone streets below.

Her moving about roused Severus, who blinked sleepily and smiled as he took in the pleasing sight of her draped alluringly across him. Noticing the golden light that cast long shadows in the room and gilded her pale skin, Severus said, "Good evening."

"Yes it seems the day has gotten away from us," Hermione remarked distractedly as she re-positioned herself to face him, where Severus planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Severus pushed her hair back from her eyes, which appeared brilliantly golden in the dusky light, and studied her face, which looked tense with worry. "What's wrong?" He asked tentatively. Hermione looked away and found herself unable to will herself to look at him again; when she finally did, the quiet concern in his eyes made hers well with tears. "Hermione," Severus exclaimed with nervous laughter, fearing she regretted their morning relations; putting the thought out of his mind, he embraced her and drew her closer to him, "it's alright."

"I'm scared, Severus," said Hermione, her admission muffled as she buried her head in her arms as she lay across his chest. "I hope my friends are all right." A small, sharp sob accompanied her whisper.

Relieved her anxiety had nothing to do with their earlier coupling, Severus sat up, resting his back against the headboard and collected her into his embrace as he inclined his head to point at the dresser, "I have an old wireless stowed in the dresser somewhere. I highly doubt they've abandoned the Order station so soon after the war. Maybe we can tune in—if we can find it, that is—to listen to the latest news." he offered, hoping to ease her worried mind.

Hermione kissed him in gratitude and slipped out of bed; she dug through the dresser's many drawers until she found it—a dated-looking wireless buried under his clothes and issues of old owl-order potion's catalogues. Severus's breath hitched in his throat as he looked her up and down, drinking in her beautiful, naked body with his eyes; he looked away when he felt weak with lust, knowing the time was not appropriate. After crawling back beneath the covers, she held the radio in her lap and cast the charm that would allow her to tune into wizard stations before she began to fiddle with its dusty dial.

Looking over her shoulder, he listened intently through the crackling of white noise for any clip or bit of sound that could be pertinent. The tuner moved across the spectrum of stations, frequently punctuated by clips of songs and voices, some clearer than others. She lingered only briefly on each frequency to determine if the station could be the one she was searching for before slowly rotating the dial, the white noise snuffing out the sound into the ether again. When she reached the topmost station, she shook her head in frustration, sighing hopelessly.

Severus reached around her to gently remove the radio from her grasp; he restarted the process, moving through the clusters of stations slowly and thoroughly. Skeptically, she watched him attempt to find the elusive, ever-changing station she so desperately longed to locate. Severus caught her imploring gaze and redoubled his efforts. As he strained to hear through the god-awful, nerve-grating sound of the static, a voice could be heard fading in and out of clarity, before he finally determined its source—one of those wacky and insipid evening radio show countdowns; it too was drowned into static once again. Narrowing his eyes in determination, he proceeded through the next flush of stations—competing transmissions fighting for air time, crooners and classical, news and sports, oldies he recognized and new pop tracks that he definitely didn't.

Finally, he settled the arrow of the dial on a station that could be heard clearly and completely; as he worked to determine whether it was the one they sought, he watched Hermione's ears perk up along with her spirits, and she rested her head in his lap near the speaker. In short order, he recognized the voice, "Is that Finnegan?" he asked, just to be sure.

Hermione smiled and nodded and held her forefinger to her lips to shush him. Severus smirked at her in response and stroked her hair absently as they listened to the broadcast together.

"So, Harry, tell our listeners—your ardent supporters in the fight against Voldemort—what you experienced when you first went to meet him in the Forbidden Forest?"

Overjoyed, Hermione squealed at this roundabout confirmation of her friend's survival, startling Severus, who rolled his eyes where she couldn't see him but offered no comment, sparing her his snark.

"I assumed that I was on my death march—as 'neither can live if the other survives' and all that. As I made my way into the forest to face my fate, I was filled with a soaring feeling of appreciation for life, for the little things we take for granted every day, and I made peace with the fact that I was going to die as I entered the forest, realizing I would likely never walk out of it. I reached a clearing where the death eaters were waiting for me, and I made my presence known. We briefly fought, aiming spells at each other, before I had enough courage to allow him to finally kill me. Before I could even register it, he pointed his wand at me and everything went black. I…had a dream of sorts about Dumbledore, about life and death and choices, and I realized that I was actually alive. Voldemort sent Mrs. Malfoy to determine whether I was alive or dead, and amazingly, she lied to keep me from further harm."

"What are your thoughts on the Malfoy family, who are now fugitives wanted for questioning by the Ministry?" Seamus asked.

"I never cared for Draco, but as I've had time to think and process all this, I've realized that he's as much a product of his circumstances as I am—nurture vs. nature and all that. He's not irredeemable—he lowered his wand before Snape killed Dumbledore—that night I saw a scared kid whose hand was forced by impossible circumstances. The night we were captured and taken to Malfoy Manor Hermione hit me with a stinging jinx that made my face swell to the point I was nearly unrecognizable—save for my scar—and Draco refused to positively identify me, even though I could tell he knew for certain it was me. If they renounce their old ways, I'm against sending them to Azkaban."

"You mentioned Snape—how did he die, if I may ask? I'm kind of happy to hear of it, honestly."

Harry sighed heavily, pausing for a long moment. "Professor Snape was a complicated man. I've come to learn things about him that put his behavior into perspective. Voldermort murdered him in cold blood—or allowed his snake too, at least." Harry added grimly.

"Serves him right," remarked Seamus.

Harry laughed nervously, "As I said near the end of the battle, Snape didn't die as Voldemort's man. He was ours—the Order's." A long pause followed, and Harry cleared his throat.

"These claims you're making about Snape—there's a lot of doubt and criticism being thrown around—people saying that the war has affected your mind. How can you be so sure about his loyalty, when the evidence clearly points to him being a loyal death eater to the very end?"

"Unfortunately, Seamus, that's between me and Professor Snape. Next question." Harry added dismissively, taking a page from Dumbledore's book.

Seamus moved on to the next question, "Your friend, Hermione Granger, by all accounts, is missing. Can you give us any insight into where she might've gone? I'm worried about her."

Harry laughed, "Nobody should worry themselves over Hermione—she can take care of herself. She's proven that by taking care of me all these years. Trust me when I say I know she's safe even if I don't know her exact whereabouts. Without her, the war wouldn't have ended as early as it did."

"How's Ron doing after the death of his brother, Fred?" Seamus asked cautiously.

"As well as can be expected," Harry sighed, "it's been tough on all of us, to lose so many people that were so dear to us all at once."

"Ah, yes, I was sorry to hear about Professor Lupin and his wife. I always liked him; he taught me a lot." Seamus said sadly.

"They died so that their son could have a better life, free from prejudice, much like my parents did. There is no greater sacrifice, and as Teddy's godfather, I will ensure that he receives the best care and never has to live in a closet under the stairs like I did. He will be taken care of, surrounded and supported by a family that is bound by love, if not by blood."

"Well said, Harry." Seamus said softly.

"If you're just now tuning in, many lives were lost in the battle of Hogwarts, among the ones not yet mentioned are Lavender Brown and Colin Creevy. The Order continues to search through the rubble and is striving to identify the remaining victims so that they may be returned to their families and put to rest. I'd like to thank Harry for joining us today and we'd like to extend our gratitude to him for ending the Dark Lord's reign of terror and allowing us to once again live without fear. Thank you, Harry, my friend."

"I couldn't have done it without you Seamus—you and all the other members of the DA and the Order. I especially want to properly thank Hermione and Ron, without whom I wouldn't have stood a chance, as well as Professor Dumbledore and…Professor Snape, whose help proved invaluable in the end."

"Oh, there's one thing I forgot to ask, speaking of uh…Snape. His body has yet to be discovered. A bit odd, don't you think?"

"Not really. Voldermort found perverse enjoyment in feeding his unlucky victims to his snake, if you remember."

His stark reply silenced Seamus for a time, before he finally spoke again, ending the transmission, "This concludes today's broadcast of Potter Watch, please tune in tomorrow to hear interviews with Professors McGonagall and Slughorn. Thanks for tuning in."

The sound of static crackled in the room, although neither Hermione nor Severus could hear it over the ringing in their ears, piercing their minds like the sharp screech of audio feedback. She sobbed silently, tear tracks clear upon her sickly pale face as she looked at him in quiet desperation, her eyes irritated and red after her attempts to rub away her tears. Staring scornfully at the radio, he leaned back, keeping his distance as if it may grow teeth and snap at him.


	13. A Thorn Among Lilies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The title of this chapter is an inverted version of a quote from "Song of Solomon"—"Like a lily among the thorns, so is my darling among the maidens."

**XIII. A Thorn Among Lilies**

" _Ah, yes, she always was a thorn in my side," Severus mumbled, hoping he hadn't said it affectionately the way he felt it. (Ch. 5 Within You, Without You)_

_By: Calliope Confetti_

Severus had watched Hermione's expression sink with the mention of every additional name on the list of the deceased. "Teddy is going to grow up without parents, just like Harry," she wept. "And George without Fred—it's like he lost a part of himself. And little Collin!" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her chest heaving with sobs as she spoke, "And Lavender…I never really cared for her. I thought she was vapid and vain, but I roomed with her for six years, and I never wished any harm to come to her…of this severity," she added with a dry laugh that fell flat on Severus's ears.

Severus sat in shock, his expression vacant and inscrutable. The sound and sight of her sobbing visibly pained him, although he felt he was useless in such situations, but he grappled for the proper response anyway. "Come here, Hermione," he whispered gently, as he gathered her into his embrace and let her cry it out for as much time as she needed, interspersed with her mournful comments about the dead and their remaining loved ones and the trauma brought on by such unnecessary carnage.

Severus tucked a stray hair behind her ear and said finally, "I lost someone in the first wizarding war, and it becomes marginally easier as time goes on." She looked up at him hopefully. "I am sorry," he whispered earnestly, as though he thought she may not believe him. "Lupin and I were not close, by any means, but I always held him in some regard, and he helped me locate you when no one else would have done so," he whispered, caressing her face referentially, "And Nymphadora…I gave her a harder time than I care to admit, but she was a brilliant student and Auror. I empathized with her in a way, as we were somewhat alike."

"Your Patronuses," Hermione said softly, her eyes wide. Severus, who had been staring off at nothing in particular, jerked his head to look Hermione in the eyes, the shock evident on his formerly tempered expression. Hermione looked up at him and whispered understandingly, "We can talk about it when you want to talk about it." Severus continued to gape at her, and he suddenly felt like he was naked in body and soul. He should've known if anyone were to find about his secret motivations, it would be Hermione, who'd cracked the potions riddle he'd written to beguile wizards thrice her age, realized Lupin was a werewolf according to his plan, and discovered that he was the "Half-Blood Prince." She was always only a step behind him, even being as young as she was.

"Hermione," he sighed, "I want to share something with you. I imagine you already have an inkling of what that 'something' is." Hermione sniffled and nodded. Severus took a deep breath and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on her hair. "As I said, I lost someone in the first wizarding war…near the end. The memories I gave Potter pertained to that person. She was my friend, when I had none. We grew up together here in Cokeworth. Magic bonded us—she and I were different from everyone else, different in a way that was beyond our wildest dreams. That girl was Lily, Lily Potter." Staring blankly forward, Severus went into a sort of trance, where the words formed and flowed of their own accord as if he'd taken Veritaserum, and he did not pause for comment, nor did Hermione attempt to interrupt to offer any.

"Potter's father set his cross-hairs on me the moment we first years boarded the train. His modus operandi was simple; he and his friends sought me out when I was alone or defenseless, absorbed in a book or walking, lost in thought. I never understood their hatred for me. I wondered if it was misplaced, but those boys lived charmed lives compared to my own childhood. My mother regretted having me, and my father stayed drunk enough to forget he had any responsibilities in the first place. Daily shouting matches ensued, often escalating to physical violence, where they threatened each other with divorce or further abuse at every turn."

"They were so caught up in their own dysfunction, they forgot about me. Lily became my surrogate family that summer; she listened to me, empathized with me… I wasn't used to it, and I think I mistook her kindness as affection, or I convinced myself it was because I so badly wanted it to be so. Still, our friendship grew, even while we studied at Hogwarts. We met up after class and studied together on the grounds, far from the reach of the 'Marauders,' whom she had sadly begun to warm to—Lily was a comely, well-liked girl, so she did not understand how devastating daily abuse from your peers can be."

"One day, after I'd taken my O.W.L., I walked alone, lost in thought, when, before I could even register what was happening, James sent me flying up by my ankle, using a spell I myself had created. I struggled against the spell, attempting to free myself, but James persisted—he always was always one for showmanship, and he asked the spectators around the lake if they wanted to see him remove my trousers. The roar of applause sealed my fate, and James debased me with fervor in a way that only he could. As I gathered myself, embarrassed beyond measure, Lily attempted to intervene on my behalf. I was humiliated, so I lashed out, calling her…" Severus paused, wincing at having to say the awful word in Hermione's presence, "a 'mudblood.' I instantly realized the horror of what I'd said, and I came to her with endless apologies, all to no avail."

"Accepting such help from a muggle-born would have alienated my Slytherin friends, who would've regarded me as a blood traitor—and they were all I had left. Lily had been drifting further and further from me for nearly the entire year, because my friendship with her had morphed into something else…a sort of obsession on my part, which made me feel like I had some authority over how she spent her time, or who she spent it with. She never forgave me for my unfortunate outburst, and we graduated no more than strangers. Still, my affection for her did not wane in the coming years."

"Those friends I mentioned were among the first true death eaters, and they recruited me—I was the ideal recruit. My miserable home life, sense of not belonging anywhere, and the powerlessness I felt made me perfect prey. As I told you before, in the darkness of their ranks, I never felt lesser or judged—in fact, I set the standard higher than most. When I overheard the prophecy in the tavern, I delivered it straight to the Dark Lord, hoping to win his approval and rise through the ranks, but I didn't realize I was handing him the love of my life at that time and her family over to him, marked for death."

"After overhearing whispers among the death eaters about what had occurred at Godric's Hollow, I couldn't believe it. I had to see it for myself. I made myself enter the house, up the stairs, stepping over James' body, until I reached the nursery. There, I saw Lily dead on the floor and Potter crying and clutching the bars of his crib. I fell to my knees… I had asked Albus to protect her, and I had asked the Dark Lord to spare her, yet there she lay. I apparated to meet Albus, and he said I placed my faith in the wrong person, and while he meant the Dark Lord, I viewed him as that person."

"Albus took advantage of my emotional state… He exploited my grief and guilt, pressuring me to remain with the Order and protect Potter at all costs." Severus had the remarkable ability to inject as much dripping malice as possible into the two syllables that made up Harry's surname. "And I agreed, because I did love her once, and she didn't deserve to die—and their deaths were ultimately my fault. So, for the past seven years, my main focus has been on keeping Potter out of harm's way, as my penance."

"I never anticipated that my penance would prove as challenging as it has turned out to be… I had no idea how deep my hatred of his father really ran until I saw his son. The boy's remarkable and unfortunate resemblance to James—he is his doppelganger, for Christ's sake—clawed at my resolve, chipping away at my resistance at every turn, and he wore me down. As much as I wanted Lily, she didn't choose me. She chose James, and he'd treated me with far more malice than I ever meant to inflict by uttering that one stupid slur. But, to the bitter end, I was a man of my word, protecting Potter to keep a promise I made to her, to Albus, to the Order."

"I appealed to Potter's sense of wonder and his notions of love when I selected those memories. Of course, they all transpired, but the order I decided to place them in was of definite import. I showed him the happy days of the childhood we shared, but I omitted everything that happened after that fateful day, when Lily turned on me and became nearly as vicious as her new group of friends, and I omitted the anguish that caused me. I emphasized the love over the guilt, when really they're inverted. The guilt I've been plagued with since the murder of her and her husband has driven me constantly forward. Their blood on my hands is a constant reminder of my biggest mistake. Yes, I suppose my love for Lily is an important aspect in the grand scheme of things, but I let go of that a long time ago. What I can't seem to let go of is the guilt."

"I never expected to live Hermione. You came along and irreversibly altered my perfect final plan." His words cut Hermione, until he added, "And I'm so glad you did. When I became interested in you, it made things infinitely easier. I could protect and defend Potter and surreptitiously protect and defend you. My interest in you renewed my fervor, my dedication to ridding the world of the Dark Lord at any cost. You gave me the second wind I did not know I needed to see my mission through to the end. You've given me a chance to have a go at living a normal life, one where I live for myself and my wants, instead of constantly living for others. You've given me something I didn't even know I wanted until I came alive and held you in the Shrieking Shack. I had denied myself for so long that it became normal. Now the Dark Lord is gone—presumably for good, this time. I can form attachments." He rubbed her shoulder referentially. "I can let my memory exist and continue to form, unedited. I can let my guard down."

After a long moment of reflective silence, Severus looked down at Hermione; her expression was fraught with sadness though without a hint of surprise. Nightfall had occurred sometime late in his confession, although neither could pinpoint exactly when, and the streetlamps and the moon outside shone through the window and provided their only light source. "Thank you for telling me, Severus. I'm sure that wasn't easy for you to do," Hermione whispered, tilting her tear-stained face upward to look at him. The confession had deepened the strong affection she already felt for him—in that moment, she knew she loved him—although she didn't want to overwhelm him with her questions or her thoughts on the matter.

Severus felt like a burden had been lifted from him; he'd wanted to tell Hermione for a while, but the timing never seemed appropriate, and although her reaction had surprised him, he appreciated her quiet ruminations and her veritable lack of questions. Severus kissed her forehead, and she smiled into his robes. "I'm glad you're feeling better," said Hermione, on a lighter note.

"Thanks to your potions acumen, all credit goes to you," he replied with a proud smile. "The antivenin from a basilisk fang was especially brilliant, in idea and in your execution of it. It's unprecedented and exceedingly clever. I think that when you return to academia, you should submit it to a publisher—it's certainly worthy of a feature in one of the top tier potions journals."

Somehow, even after all they'd been through together, his compliments still caught her off guard, and each one thrilled her like it was the first. "Thank you. I suppose necessity is the mother of invention, after all. I think you've earned a footnote, at least," she quipped.

"A footnote? I am so honored. I at least hope it's for my contributions as your teacher rather than my status as patient zero," replied Severus sarcastically.

She considered it for a moment. "Okay, two footnotes," she laughed.

"That's better," Severus responded playfully. "Your hybrid potion was impressive also. In that state, I certainly appreciated only having to take one potion for my symptoms. The laudanum like base was innovative simply because wizards have never utilized it, although I found it highly effective and sedating. You utilized the ingredients at your disposal and adapted well. The aromatic herbs helped with fever reduction and taste, which is always a plus. Nothing extraneous was added, and you added the proper amount of each without a reference. I think we have a 'Muggle-Born Princess' on our hands," he teased.

She grinned at him before adding, "No, I think I'd like to come up with a more original name for my alter ego."

"As you like." Severus smirked. "What discipline do you hope to pursue?" Severus asked curiously; he felt odd at this reminder of the fact that they truly knew so little about each other.

Hermione mulled over her answer before speaking tentatively, "I haven't really given it a lot of consideration."

Severus gave her a questioning look, "That is rather unlike you."

Hermione squirmed uncomfortably. "At first, I gave it a great deal of thought, even when we first started on the hunt for the Horcruxes, because I was under the impression I'd be able to return to school before the year was out. When the circumstances combined to suggest that was implausible, I still did research and weighed my options, but there was no joy in it. I grew increasingly discouraged and embittered by our circumstances and by the fact that it felt like my choice to return to school had been effectively taken away from me, although I realize now I made the choice to stay and it was the noble choice, however unfulfilling."

Hermione continued, "I had few opportunities to hone my magical talents, and the only area I felt I'd made progress in was survival skills, which seemed to add insult to injury since I had no desire or far-reaching purpose in furthering such distinctly non-magical skills. Even still, I studied for O.W.L.S. I wouldn't get to take for another year or more and did some critical self-reflection. At some point, though, I hit some invisible threshold where thinking about the future felt depressing, an exercise in the absurd, rather something hopeful and exciting. I continued to routinely and deliberately place my life in danger and in precarious circumstances, and the more risky my behavior became, the less the future seemed to matter."

She sighed, "I think I likened it to obsessing and planning a life that would never come to fruition, so that it became a depressing chore that felt like taunting myself with a picture of a life that would never be. I had resolved myself to the fact that I wouldn't live past the tender age of seventeen and that such decisions didn't matter—they'd amount to less than nothing in the end. So, I stopped contemplating the future and threw myself ever-deeper into the present moment until shortly after I met you in the forest. I reevaluated the idea of my future, and I had a renewed interest in said future, because it had begun to include you. Only now that the war is truly over have I begun to fully realize what that means—I can have a future, after all. I suddenly have choices again, and my life is spread out before me in an endless array of possibility, which is exhilarating. I've yet to settle on specifics though."

Severus caressed her face, "For you now, the only limits preventing you from succeeding in whichever way you choose are self-imposed." _Or rendered impossible by my presence in your life._ He thought sadly.

"Would you go back to teach at Hogwarts, if given the choice?" Hermione asked.

Severus thought for a moment, "It was my home for most of my life, but I do not think I could return without dwelling on painful memories, as well as the nagging feeling of never having progressed. I believed, like you, that it was overwhelmingly likely—preferred even—that I wouldn't survive to see peacetime again. When I entered the Shrieking Shack that night, I'd known that the Dark Lord's volatile behavior had begun to escalate in a way that did not bode well for anyone, even his closest of advisors, and when I entered, I had no contingency plan for if I made it out alive. I never thought that I would have a chance at a life which gave me a modicum of happiness, much less a life with you that significantly surpasses that."

"It still hasn't fully hit me yet," Hermione began, "that we are able to fully be together. In the end, it's what I wanted above all, so the fact that it's a reality is slow to sink in."

"I understand. Happiness has eluded me for so long that the fulfillment of my most powerful and driving desire seems impossible to me even now." Severus whispered as he drew the blankets up around them both, "You're the only person in my life who has given to me instead of just taken from me, Hermione. I settled for the crumbs of Lily's affection because that was all I was ever offered. I tend to see the worst in people because that's typically the only side of themselves that they show to me. You are warm and affectionate, and you give the best of yourself to everyone, especially me, when I probably don't even deserve it—I am utterly, irrationally, life-changingly besotted with you." Severus said softly, his gaze fixed on her face, before finishing with a bit of characteristic self-deprecation, "I am still completely bewildered by the fact that you reciprocate my affections, truth be told. I am unsure what you see in me that you find attractive, but I am certainly not going to call it into question."

"Don't be silly," Hermione laughed, "I find you extremely attractive. Your intellect, your character, your courage, your loyalty, your magnificent voice, even your bitter cynicism," Hermione knelt next to him on the bed and tilted his chin up to look at her, "And I find you extremely handsome."

"Now, don't make me use legillimency to force you to own up to that blatant lie," Severus smirked, drawing her closer to him.

"Go ahead," Hermione looked into his eyes, but he quickly looked away, leading him to admit, "No, I have no desire to do that."

"You'll just have to believe me then," Hermione countered.

"Begrudgingly, I suppose," he conceded before leaning in to kiss her neck.

"And the lust I feel for you is unmatched," she added in a fading voice as he softly grazed her neck with his teeth.

"On that, we can certainly agree," Severus purred before lowering her to the bed, where for the first time, he noticed the red blotches all over her body. "Where is that bag of yours?" he asked. Puzzled, she leaned over him to retrieve it from the bedside table and handed it to him. "Accio dittany." The vial flew into his hand. He dipped it against his fingertips and began to apply the healing potion to her wounds—the burns she incurred at Gringotts and the gashes, scrapes, and bruises she suffered in the battle—with a tenderness that moved and surprised her.

Noticing the scratches where his fingernails had dug into her hips earlier that morning, he once again tipped the vial to his fingers, but before he could apply the potion to those particular marks, he heard Hermione—"Leave them," she commanded huskily. He obeyed her, kissing each hipbone lightly with a quiet, "Mea culpa."

Encouraged by the timbre of her voice, he ran his hands up her thighs, and she instinctively opened her legs for him. He kissed and nipped the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, and he felt her legs tense as she spread them further apart, allowing him access to her, all of her, as she lay aching and parted for him. He continued to teasingly touch her, everywhere except where she wanted, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest. When he finally gave into her, she felt him touch a place inside her that left her writhing against his hand with a soft moan. Witnessing her eager reaction spurred him onward as he curled his fingers and relished in watching the reflexive arch of her back.

Hermione closed her eyes, wishing to momentarily feel every tactile sensation, sans any potential interference from the other four. For an agonizingly long time, which was likely only the span of a few seconds, she felt only his hot breath. The sweetish pheromonal scent of her desire aroused him intensely, and he longed to taste her, but he'd never performed that particular sexual act—he'd never had the desire to until her. The daunting thought of disappointing her led him to tell her, in the quietest of whispers, "I've never done this before."

Hermione ran her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, then down his neck encouragingly in a way that spoke to the fact that she didn't mind at all. "Please," she whispered as he stroked her inner thigh with his thumb, admiring her pale flesh. The reality of situation had yet to reach him; it still felt surreal, a heady dream-like haze—could it really be happening, had Hermione just invited him to taste her? Still, it only took one plying word, before she even spoke it in full, for him to lower his head to her. When he finally tasted the undeniable essence of her desire for him, she heard him groan deep in his throat in primal satisfaction as he gripped her thighs in a way that revealed his draining composure. It was a novel experience for her—at first, the thought was more arousing than the act itself, nothing like in the films where that sort of thing sent heroines into hysterics—but after a time, the strokes of Severus's ardent tongue hit their mark, and she began lifting her hips to meet him.

When he looked up to measure her reaction, he was pleased to see her grabbing fistfuls of covers, her legs restless and twitching. She gripped his hair at the roots, and Severus continued his current motion until she was whimpering his name, begging him not to stop. Focusing on the feeling that heightened inside her with every flick of his tongue, she felt the progressively growing rise and fall of the waves of her climax crash over her. Helpless and writhing under his touch, she cried out sharply and twisted her hips and tensed her legs around him in a wanton way that left him acutely aware of his own desire.

Her legs trembled as he tasted her climax in triumph, until she moved back and gave him a come-hither look, which he registered immediately, standing so fast it dizzied him. Descending upon her, he entered her almost roughly to quick and pleasing effect, groaning with the relief to finally be inside of her. He began a series of slow and measured thrusts that left her moaning his name, her voice trembling with ripples of pleasure whenever he thrust against a certain spot or groaned in a way that made her abdomen tense and flutter with arousal.

"Severus," she panted softly between the mounting peaks of her coming climax.

"Ah, Hermione…" he moaned into her hair as he buried himself inside of her, wrestling with his self-control until he felt he succeeded by some measure as he kissed her with a longing that only seemed to grow in strength as they made love. He felt his composure rapidly unraveling with every thrust, every kiss, every touch, until she shuddered beneath him, gripping him in such an intense and deeply satisfying way that he grunted and groaned vocally as he moved toward his own release.

Hermione gasped as he took her roughly, wrapping her legs around him and digging her fingernails into his back until she heard him cry out. As he slowly undulated against her with the last of his thrusts, he loved the feel of her body beneath him, the beautiful swell of her curves pressed against him as they held each other. Finally, he curled around her spine and drew her close to him, his hands coming to rest lightly on her stomach.

Prior to that morning, the lust he harbored for her had intensified with every chance caress, every conversation, every letter exchanged, every stolen glance, and every time they met in secret, until it threatened to overwhelm him if left unconsummated, but although the primal urge had been fulfilled, it had not been sated; in fact, he wanted her now more than ever. The control and restraint he practiced in other areas of his life were conspicuously diminished in the bedroom. Although, the way she had lay sprawled beneath him, leaning into his touch with abandon, eyes emphatically closed to relish in the sensation of his attentions, had given him a sense of unprecedented longing and a form of control where all others faltered. The thrill of bringing her pleasure surpassed every other magnificent element of their coupling.

"Did you enjoy that?" Severus asked, lacing his fingers with hers, resting his head on the storm of curls overtaking his pillow.

"Yes, of course," Hermione answered, still glowing. "Did you?"

"You have no idea," Severus whispered, savoring the taste of her lingering on his mouth. Running his hands down her body appreciatively, he whispered, "God, you're beautiful, Hermione." She smiled into her hand, loving the way he made her name sound like a term of endearment all its own. He then added softly, "I know I don't say it as often as I should—if I've ever said it, come to think of it—but you know I think you're stunning, don't you?"

"Yes, I see it in your eyes when you look at me. I feel it in your touch, and I hear it in your voice when you say my name the way you say it. Words are only half the story—actions are paramount, and your actions, your body language, your mannerisms all show me that it's true. I feel more beautiful than I ever have when I catch you looking at me. I like the person I am when I'm with you. Verbal reassurance is very nice, but an excess of it is not necessary for me." She replied, flashing him a coy smile over her shoulder, "So, lucky you, you're off the hook."

While Lily was doe-eyed and appropriately lily-pure, Hermione was the opposite—she wasn't Adam's rib, some half-formed derivative. She was Lilith in the flesh, with the ability to command him, and he preferred it. She had awoken something deep inside of him in the inaccessible recesses of his mind, deeper even than the guilt that had driven him forward for so long—it was the stirrings of a man who recognized few as equals and even fewer as equals with something to offer or teach him return. In Hermione, he'd found his equal, his counterpart, with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. She was beautiful and perfectly imperfect—flawed with a fiery temper and an intellect rivaling his own. In his mind, he saw Hermione's eyes—brilliant brown with a starburst splash of amber around the iris—superimposing over Lily's eyes, usurping them in image and in the fondness of his dreams, suddenly snapping the fetters to Potter's mother forever.


	14. Convalescence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Author's Note:** Hello all, I apologize for my lengthy absence. Anyway, I wanted to thank the many new followers I've accrued in this period of inactivity, as well as everyone who gave kudos and/or added this story to their bookmarks and subscriptions—I appreciate you and your readership. A special thanks to the followers who've been with me through much of story, offering chapter-specific feedback and kind reviews. Reviews are like a writer's lifeblood, and I appreciate them immensely. Anyway, this chapter includes a lot of introspection on Severus's part, so I hope it doesn't cross into boring territory. I feel like it's important to include, because when it comes to emotional upheaval, such a damaged person doesn't always have the easiest time getting from point A to point B. In conclusion, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I'm in the process of writing another, so hopefully that dreaded writer's block will plague me no longer. _

**XIV. Convalescence**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

 

When Severus awoke, the scene, bright before him, appeared in soft-focus like a dream—Hermione lay sleeping beside him, entangled in the sheets; to him, she looked like a Grecian goddess as they twined up her legs and torso, allowing him enticing glimpses of those remaining hints of bare flesh. With her hair curtaining her serene expression and her hands curled beneath her, she appeared almost angelic. If not for the wound throbbing at his throat and the reality of their situation orbiting the threshold of his consciousness, he could have easily accepted the alternate reality of his death that night in the Shrieking Shack and his apparent passage beyond the veil, where somehow the afterlife had granted him this little Elysian niche for he and Hermione, carved in eternity, and for a moment, he wished it were true.

Another sear of the snakebite betrayed the pleasing illusion. Now, with the sedating effect of the laudanum quickly fading, Severus felt the full force of his injuries, void of the merciful adrenaline and that had also been sustaining him. On the bedside table, he noticed the neat row of tinctures Hermione had arranged for him, and he felt a pang of tenderness for her and her caring gesture. When he made a shaky attempt to reach for a vial, another one tipped over and fell to the floor, rolling out of sight. Hermione stirred at the commotion as he cursed and grappled for the vial under the bed. When he retrieved it and put it back in its place, he turned to Hermione, who attempted to stifle a yawn as she stretched her arms above her head.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully before cuddling up next to him.

"Good morning to you." He wrapped his arms around her, swallowing against the pain of speaking. He cleared his throat upon hearing the hoarse sound of his voice. Hermione, noticing him wincing as he spoke, scrambled to her knees beside him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, eyeing him with concern.

"Your healing potion has worn off, that's all," he replied as he removed the stopper from the second tincture before drinking it. In truth, the pressure of the bruising felt like Nagini's jaws were still clamped firmly around his neck.

She gave him a skeptical head tilt that made her suspicion known. "We need to change those," she stated, pointing at the wound dressing on his neck. She reached across him to retrieve her beaded bag.

"Not yet," he protested in a rasping whisper.

"Then you need to eat something," she insisted. Donning a pair of slippers she'd withdrawn from the bag, she stepped out of bed, bending down to pick up her nightgown from the floor.

"Who knew you were the motherly type?" he quipped with a smirk, while she stood at the threshold re-dressing.

She rolled her eyes at him and replied, "I've had to mother Harry and Ron for years," before leaving with a flounce. As she turned to leave the room, her lips quirked into a rueful smile at the thought of the boys.

She padded down to the kitchen and scanned the room—dingy squares of yellow were tiled beneath cream-colored cabinets with peeling paint and broken silver fixtures—and quickly deemed it quintessentially "bachelor pad." The window above the sink looked out upon a swatch of grass in a small, bricked-in courtyard. She rummaged through his cabinets for something for the two of them to eat but soon found her options were scant. Since Severus spent so little time there, he scarcely stocked the house with any groceries. In a corner cabinet, she found an old can of chicken soup, which she heated on the stove, pairing it with a box of stale crackers. She rejoiced when she discovered a box of Earl Gray tea, and she put the kettle on the stove with the simmering pot of soup. Finally, she arranged everything on a tray, grabbing a bottle of elf-made wine on a whim, before returning to Severus upstairs.

When she set the tray on the bed between them with a quiet clatter, he regarded her with another smirk and an arch of the eyebrows. "Quite a spread you have there."

"You haven't given me a lot to work with," she retorted teasingly.

She handed him his cup of tea, which he gratefully accepted and sipped at slowly. "Thank you," he said softly. She smiled, sipping coyly at her own cup.

He eyed the bottle of wine quizzically. "It's a bit early," he remarked.

"Special circumstances," she countered as she uncorked the bottle and poured a glass for each of them. After accepting his with a slightly amused expression, he tipped it up to hers, clinking in a wordless toast.

"So, what's our plan? That's your milieu, isn't it?" Severus asked, sipping his wine thoughtfully. Hermione held her glass against her lips for a few moments while she considered his question.

"I was thinking we could go to my parents' flat in London. I've retained it for them so that when I restore their memories, they can return home," she thought aloud.

The way he cocked his head to the side communicated to her that he had something to say on the subject, yet he remained silent.

"What?" she demanded. Knowing it was a delicate subject for her, he hesitated and went back and forth over whether to say anything at all.

He sighed, parsing over his words. "Do you think everything will return to the status quo, as it was before?"

"You asking the question to me seems to imply that you don't think so," she countered, frowning.

"Most persons, wizard and muggle alike, do not take kindly to having been obliviated, no matter the reason or its legitimacy. It's about choices and agency. People don't particularly like having been deprived of either. Sometimes, it can breed resentment between the one subjected to said spell and the caster of it. At least, that's what I've noticed in the cases I've witnessed," he finished quickly when he saw her sinking expression, hoping that tacking his subjective perspective on the end would soften the blow of his words.

She swirled the red wine in her glass, watching an eddy form at its surface. For a time, she remained silent, staring pensively at her glass with a far-away gaze.

Severus regarded her with concern. "Hermione?" he prodded softly.

Upon hearing her name, she seemed to emerge from her contemplative daze. "I guess I'd never thought of it that way. I was so convinced that I was doing what I had to, to keep them safe from harm…" she trailed off, still absently swirling her wine, with her fingers clenched tightly around the stem of her glass.

"Hermione," he interjected, his tone softening, "What you did was essential to your parents' safety. It was a selfless act that took courage to carry out—please, do not misunderstand me. I only meant that even good, noble and necessary actions have unforeseen and unfair consequences," he explained, pressing his hand to his lips regretfully.

"No," she said softly, "Never be afraid to speak truthfully with me or to introduce something that will further my understanding simply because it will sting, Severus. A little pain is nothing, but the truth is everything."

"I could've said it more tactfully," he admitted.

"We'll work on that," she offered, smiling sadly as she took another long sip of her wine. "Even if my parents are bitter over what I've done, which is their right, I suppose, I'm overjoyed that they are safe and unharmed, above all—even if they hate me."

"It's just like children resenting the fact that their parents insist they know what's best for them. They're usually correct, but it's the assumption that is insulting to them. Yours is vice versa but essentially the same," he replied and she nodded, flashing him another sad little smile in response.

"Yeah, that's a good way of putting it," she acknowledged.

Severus felt the weight on his conscience ease a tad at her words, and after taking another drink of his wine, he returned to the topic at hand. "But, as you were saying earlier, your parents' house?"

"Yes," she seemed to brighten a little at the change of subject, "I think we could use it as a safe house for a week or so. There we can take some time to ascertain the current state of things where you and I are concerned. I get the 'Prophet' delivered there."

Although he loathed bringing up her parents again, his curiosity seemed to get the better of him. "When do you plan to restore your parents' memories?" he braved.

"That's a good question," she said with a dry laugh. "I suppose it all depends on finding out exactly where we now stand across the wizarding world. I want to make sure that they are completely safe before I restore their memories."

When he realized that she had to consider him before tending to the issue of her parents, the thought hit him with a painful pang of shame. "You mustn't do that on my account," he protested softly.

She narrowed her eyes and studied his face; he could tell it wasn't in anger, but he couldn't quite identify the emotion that paired with the expression on her face. She took a long swig of her wine before returning to the subject of their next safe-house. "What do you think of the idea?" she inquired, anticipating a negative response.

"I think it's the most promising one we have at the present," he responded, mirroring her earlier long swig. Surprised by him being in agreement, she perked up and finished her glass; the wine had begun to warm her stomach and emanate outward to ultimately touch her mind with pleasant calm. Seeing her reach for the bottle, he quickly finished his own glass to match her.

After she poured them each another, she toasted him wordlessly as he had done previously. Eyeing the radio with barely concealed apprehension, Severus asked, "Should we see if we can find the station and listen to the news again?"

With a shy smile and a slight blush, she shook her head. "No, I'm actually quite enjoying this little bubble in time where, whether we know the news or not, it doesn't really matter."

"Yes, as am I," he quietly concurred, before adding, "I'll need to gather some of my things here before we depart for London."

"What things are you taking with you?" she asked curiously; in her observation, it seemed he had no materialistic tendencies.

"The usual necessities and a handful of items of personal value, which I will show you when I unearth them, as well as a few things of objective value, like my Pensieve and a few books. Your bag will certainly come in handy. What a clever thing to do."

The compliment refreshed her smile. "Your house is interesting," she remarked, absently running the fabric of his green quilt between her fingers.

"'Interesting,' says the lady," he repeated slyly.

"I mean it," she insisted, "It is very 'you' in the best of ways. I wouldn't mind living here." Suddenly, he felt pleasantly warm in a way that exceeded the effects of the wine, and he ducked his head and took another quick sip in attempt to hide his smile at the thought of her residing there with him.

"I love your library. I was scanning some of the titles as I prepared those medicinal potions for you the other night."

"How very Granger-like of you," he quipped, "A love of books that sustains you through even the darkest of days."

"It's one you seem to share," she countered with a grin, leading him to nod in affirmation.

"Some interesting curios downstairs, too," she commented, taking another lengthy, thoughtful sip of her drink.

"I've collected various objects of interest throughout my travels. It was I who brought the 'Mirror of Erised,' to Hogwarts after acquiring it on a trip to Venice, actually," he explained.

What Severus neglected to mention was a revealing moment he'd experienced in the Room of Requirement one day in early spring of that current year. When he had willed the doorway to appear, the mysterious room obliged him. He entered the room of hidden things and walked with purpose to a far corner of the room, annoyed by the sound of on a record skipping on an old victrola. Shafts of light streamed from the floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing an insane flurry of dust in the air. Birds chirped and fluttered overhead, perching on the beams of the ceiling to observe him as he approached a rectangular object leaning against the stone wall, concealed by a dusty veil.

Covering his eyes with his hand, he pulled the curtain away to reveal the mirror, its gilded frame glinting even though it had been relegated to the shadows. After taking a steadying breath, he removed his hand and opened his eyes. To his astonishment, he no longer saw himself with Lily in the mirror—in his arms she'd been replaced by a certain bushy-haired know-it-all. When he realized the mirror revealed what he was trying so desperately to hide, he fell to his knees. He could no longer deny his feelings for her as he touched her figure in the mirror, caressing her face with light fingertips that left swiping smudges in their wake. In his heart, he knew he would never tell Hermione about the moment her image in a mirror brought him to his knees on the floor of the Room of Requirement.

When Hermione thought about the purpose of the mirror, it made sense that he had been the one who purchased it, although it saddened her to think of the reason he bought it, to stare longingly at the image of Lily long after her death. "So, um...this house belonged to your parents?" she asked the first question that came to mind, steering the conversation away from what she assumed was an uncomfortable topic for him.

Still lost in his reverie, remembering the day he saw Hermione in the mirror, he shook his head after a long pause and answered her, "Yes, it belonged to my parents. I sort-of inherited the place when they left. I arranged the library to my liking, but never replaced the furniture, as I never really had the funds. I've kind of grown to like it, actually—it's well-worn but comfortable and familiar. The Oriental rug is one of their choices that I always appreciated. My mother bought it." When he mentioned his mother, she saw a pained expression steal across his face and something rueful flash in his dark eyes, and she wondered about his parents' current whereabouts, although she knew better than ask about them.

"Was this always your room?" she asked, making a sweeping gesture.

"Not always," he answered, adding, "I don't particularly care for staying in my old room. I put Wormtail up in there when the Dark Lord sent him here to keep watch on me," he scoffed, finishing his second glass. Hermione noted the more he imbibed the more personal he became, although only slightly.

"Do you play the piano? I thought I saw one downstairs in the library," she inquired.

"No, but my mother did. I'm not quite sure why I kept it. It's one of the few nice things she owned, so I couldn't bring myself to rid of it."

"I play a little. I took lessons before I received my Hogwart's letter, and I continued sporadically throughout the summers, but often I was with Harry and Ron or elsewhere. I wish Hogwarts would have offered a wider range of humanities classes."

"Yes, the curriculum is severely lacking in some areas. Music and art are valuable aspirations, but there's no wand-waving or magic involved, so many wizards don't share our sentiments," Severus explained, finishing his second glass. He eyed the bottle with a mischievous look in his eyes that Hermione found incredibly attractive. "Are you up for a third?"

With a chuckle, she nodded, and he poured the remaining wine between their two glasses. "Were you an insufferable know-it-all in your youth too?" she asked, scanning the bookshelves that lined even his bedroom walls.

"I don't know about insufferable," he answered distractedly. She caught him staring at the scar left by the Dark Mark, as if it would reappear at any moment. Rolling up her sleeve, she flashed him her own left forearm, where the word "mudblood" seemed to be scrawled and embossed in white on her already pale skin.

Taking her hand, he softly said, "It seems we both have scars from this war."

"The scars you can see are not so bad; it's the ones no one can see that seem to cause the most anguish," she said simply, unaware of the profundity of her statement, as she stared at some fixed point on the opposite wall.

Bending forward, Severus held up her left arm, lightly running his lips over the scar and kissing it softly. In response, she lay across his lap and kissed the red outline where the darker one once was. Staring down at her, he admired her poignant display that demonstrated her remarkable ability to accept him in spite of all his past mistakes.

For a quiet moment, she laced her fingers with his, before introducing some levity, whispering faux-informatively, "Our soup is cold."

"Yes, yes it is. How very observant of you. Although I don't think it makes much of a difference either way," he laughed softly.

"How dare you criticize my cooking prowess?" she teased, giving him a playful slap on the hand.

"I never pinned you as the domestic type. So, you have actually exceeded my expectations."

Sitting astride his lap, she retorted with mock-seriousness, "I never settle for 'exceeds expectations,' so I'll have to get that up to an 'outstanding.'"

"Mm…I'm sure I'll enjoy your attempts. You certainly can follow a recipe to a tee, in potions anyway," said Severus as he drew her against him.

"We can't all have your ingenuity in potions, Mr. Prince."

"That's Professor Prince to you, dear, and I won't stand for your sass," he jested, playfully grabbing her shoulders to make her look him in the eye.

Hermione giggled against his shoulder and nuzzled him softly, while he held her and fought back his own laughter. Looking up at him, she silently admired the genuine look of mirth on his face.

"What?" he chuckled when he caught her staring at him.

Her smile broadened, "I've just never seen you this relaxed…and well, happy. It's nice."

Seemingly, he ignored her, as his next comment had certainly gone off-topic. "It's obvious your parents were dentists. You have lovely teeth." She flashed him another teeth-baring smile and erupted into a fit of giggles as he added, "With a little help from the minimizing charm anyway." He could barely get through the remark without bursting out laughing, although she engaged him in a playful tussle just the same.

When he overcame her and pinned her down, he quipped, "I don't suppose they could do anything about mine."

Fighting against his hold until she was nearly out of breath, she laughed, "Nonsense, you have a lovely smile. There, I said it. Now let me up," she demanded, bucking against him. His chest heaved in silent laughter as he tousled her hair.

"Stop it!" she ordered, laughing, "I'm serious."

Sighing in feigned annoyance, he released his hold and grasped her hands to help her up. With a content expression resting on her face, Hermione nursed a second cup of Earl Gray, while Severus tipped a bowl to his lips and finished his portion of cold soup before nibbling on a stale cracker. "We'll soon need to conjure up some proper food."

"Food is one the exceptions to Gamp's law of transfiguration…" she began, playing up her inner know-it-all to annoy him.

She knew she had succeeded when he delivered his pedantic reply with a sigh and a knead of the brow, "I meant 'conjure' in the muggle sense. I think you knew that."

Even covering her mouth with her hand couldn't stifle her laughter as she moved to lie on her side. Eventually, he nestled comfortably beside her, enjoying the warmth of her embrace—and his stomach felt warm and pleasant too, as if the soup hadn't been ice cold after all.

* * *

Lying there with her, he couldn't help but to again appreciate the stark contrast between his relationship with Hermione and his former obsession with Lily. When he thought of the latter in broad terms, he remembered an overarching feeling of cold despair that made him shiver even in recall. Ruminating on specific memories hit him with a crushing blow of realization. Every tender gesture she rebuffed, every cue she missed, every fruitless leap of faith he made, every misspoken word he uttered, every fight they had and every resultant separation, every romantic moment between her and another he witnessed from a quiet corner, every embarrassment and every disappointment—all the effort he expended in pursuit of her amounted to nothing but agony. With Lily, he felt he was at the mercy of her mercurial moods and fickle whims.

All the moments he once treasured, now free from their former nostalgic glow, revealed nothing but a broken boy clinging to little moments of hope and success—cobbling together a mosaic of them to make the whole appear more than the sum of its parts—instead of accepting the greater context of failure. Every opportunity he created to see her, every mental dress rehearsal he performed in preparation, only culminated in a visceral sense of anguish—like a bow string playing ricochet on raw nerves—which had brought him helpless to his knees on the floor of Gryffindor tower, settling for every crumb of her tenuous and conditional affection, scarfing it up like a starving animal.

 _Unrequited love is nothing compared to love returned._ he thought sleepily, as if it were the final word, until the thought finally registered. _Love…_ When he jolted fully awake, his mouth went dry and his latent understanding grew clear. _Love is mutual._ This relationship felt different because it _was_ different—he had never truly loved Lily, he only thought he had. In a roundabout way, the Dark Lord's assumption had been correct—he only desired her. Severus felt his world shifting without him, and he couldn't conceptualize any further without framing it in terms he was familiar with.

 _Potions._ As a master of potions, he knew too well intoxication, the dark allure of certain illicit brews and their sweet drugging effects. He acknowledged that being with Hermione was certainly on the level with intoxication, but desperation, the hallmark of addiction and obsession, had no place in their relationship, although some external circumstances that were beyond their control had caused them plenty of it. Instead, Severus felt a sense of calm assurance in his feelings for her and vice versa. Unlike when he was drowning in desperation and the helplessness that colors obsession, he felt in control of the situation. With Lily, he had felt like so many of his incompetent students—who were decidedly not careful—letting the fires beneath their cauldrons burn out of control, scorching their potions beyond recognition, while their nose is buried in the textbook, too busy searching for an ingredient they missed. Carefully tended fires resulted in perfect potions bubbling in the cauldrons above.

 _Magic._ There existed a strange magic, a burgeoning shared energy coursing between them, capable of transcending the boundaries of flesh to travel through them and between them and back again, electricity in every touch—with magic curling up his spine and crackling at his fingertips, instantaneous sensual snaps of it throwing him out of focus at random. This reserve of magic seemed to replenish with every selfless gesture of kindness, every endearing sentiment expressed, every quiet proclamation of affection. _Chemistry._ Chemistry reminded of him combustion reactions, the combination of two elements and added heat…Or a synthesis reaction, when a more complex compound is created through the combination of two species of elements. The fact that the chemistry mirrored the psychology gave him a sense of validation.

For him, obsession had felt like a state of self-driven madness, and his broken relationship with Lily had led him to wrongly believe that relationships were static states, and that stasis, for him, spanned decades and left him arrested in a state of emotional adolescence, in which his feelings were all marked by that enduring sameness. With Hermione, he was reminded of kinetic energy, love as a constant, formed of individual parts that move when heated, like atoms—molecules in constant motion. When all the qualifiers he'd once applied were stripped away, he realized obsession was simply a particularly piquant form of lust; while his love for Hermione, the intense affection he'd begun to feel towards her, certainly enhanced the lust he felt for her, another realization dawned on him—those lovely lips of hers were just as inviting when they were in nearly constant motion, forming the know-it-all words of the questions that constantly flowed from her mind to her mouth, as they were when they were locked with his or slightly parted in wonder or in ecstasy. Quirks that once annoyed him to no end had begun to further endear her to him. The know-it-all talk that once drove him to madness aroused in him a new affectionate madness. And the all-enveloping sensation, a peaceful self-assurance and quiet confidence, now felt like a dream next to the alternative, the all-consuming blaze of obsession.

After his mental comparison exercise, he was unsure whether he felt more enlightened or far more confused, so he focused on things he knew for certain. At some point, even though it had escaped his notice, the heavy weight of responsibility had settled in his breast; this he had embraced first instinctually, then willingly—a desire to protect and care for her that went beyond himself and his own interests, a force greater than himself. A selflessness that surpassed sacrifice, as sacrifice implied there was even the question of him making another choice, other than the newly innate one of laying down his life and all he had to protect her.

Therein lay the conundrum—to him, telling her that he loved her seemed inherently selfish. At least now, if they were ever forced to face their day in the courts, he could easily explain away their torrid affair as purely physical—two lonely people in a war-torn world taken by lust at the most inopportune time—or further obfuscate the truth by painting himself as the villain, spinning a story of a hook-nosed lech with an appetite for young girls and delivering it with conviction. It pained him to even think that way, but if he ever had to say it to save her from Azkaban, he would mount a broom and scream it from the sky.

 _Tanquam ex ungue leonem—we know the lion by its claw._ And he knew Hermione, a lion through and through, and now that he'd earned her loyalty, she would stand beside him in the face of all his detractors—all roar and teeth and claws in a fight like they've never seen. She would happily be shackled and chained to him on a fast train to Azkaban rather than even think of abandoning him or leaving him to face his fate alone—a fact that conversely terrified him and made him glow with pride. This cognitive dissonance intensified when he realized that refraining from telling her rivaled the selfishness of telling her in the first place—she deserved to know the truth, and he respected her far too much to take away her agency and bar her from making her own informed choices.

All his life, he'd been told that love is weakness, or it had been demonstrated to him. It felt counterintuitive to embrace it, since his entire modus operandi hinged on the integrity of his mental armor—vulnerabilities were chinks, mistakes made in carelessness, not things to be revealed to others in earnest. Though to him, it felt like a reserve of strength, not a weakness. When he'd desperately pined for Lily, in particularly dark moments of despair, the obstacles in his way seemed insurmountable. Now, however, all the problems, all the complications, all the inevitabilities and unknowns in his and Hermione's future felt like par for the course, not active mines in a mission to be abandoned—rather than alarm, it seemed to warrant cool acceptance. Nonetheless, Severus knew his life was about to become much more complicated in ways he was simply too love-drunk to comprehend, but he found that even after acknowledging the truth in that insight, he did not care.

He'd also always been advised not to trust to easily. Even Dumbledore, revered for his integrity and devotion to the greater good, may have meant well, but his sneaky deceptiveness and his penchant for misdirection rendered him inherently untrustworthy. Dumbledore offered his underlings the truth in the same way he offered his office-goers sherbet lemons and Bertie Bott's, preferring to dole out candy-coated bits of it. His sickly-sentimental assertion that love protected Potter from the killing curse never stirred Severus's soul the way it had so many others; in fact, the blithering former headmaster piqued his annoyance with every mention of it. In his mind, this embellishment cheapened the sacrifice Lily made, turning it into a Prophet-ready spread instead of a sobering reality, as well as invalidating the sacrifice of so many others who threw themselves in front of a wand for their children.

At least the Dark Lord made no qualms over what he expected from his followers and the consequences that would befall them if they crossed him—although in the end, even though Severus didn't trust the Dark Lord like he'd assumed, all his loyalty garnered him was a slow death in an abandoned building and a newfound phobia of snakes. In spite of these many experiences that that made him wary of trusting anyone, he found that he already trusted Hermione implicitly, without any conscious effort on his part, even as his brain screamed to berate him for his failure to exercise caution. Unfortunately, love involved an exchange of power, an often unequal one in which one person cares more, loves more deeply than the other and therefore holds the least amount power, and he had a feeling he would occupy that position—not because he doubted the fierceness of her love for him—just because he always had. Giving away his power, even to Hermione, set his mind to spinning in a maelstrom of anxiety.

 _I love her. I love Hermione Granger._ Severus mentally proclaimed. It was easy to say the words in his head, so why was the very same sentiment, comprised of those very same words, so difficult to verbalize? Saying each word itself, with enough space between, required zero effort, yet when they were strung together in that infamous declaration, saying those three irretractable words to her felt like an impossible feat. Those duplicitously poignant and poisonous words had the potential to change lives, to start wars, to make relationships and to break them depending on whose saying them to whom. Those words, so few and so small, held immense power—those words were dangerous. In spite of all that, it felt imperative that he say them to her soon—it was a secret he had no desire to keep; in fact, he desperately wanted to share it. Without a single doubt, he knew she reciprocated, and the same glow that warmed him whenever she smiled at him, exuded from her so he could feel its aura whenever he lay next to her.

Knowing she was asleep, his tongue tripped over the words until he managed to whisper them in her ear in sequence with the full knowledge that when he said them to her for real, he will have truly done it, he will have just handed her the means to destroy him, and he would simply have to trust that she wouldn't use them.

* * *

Later, after much prodding from her, he acquiesced and allowed her to tend to his injuries. When Hermione went to remove the bandages from his neck, he hissed, wincing as the adhesive on the medical tape clung stubbornly to his wounds.

No sooner had she removed the gauze than she startled him with a sharp gasp and drew a trembling hand to her lips. "I'm abysmal at healing magic!" she cried, throwing her hands up. This genuine admittance of human fault from her caused him genuine alarm. "It's infected!" she stressed, growing hysterical. "What are we going to do?!" she pleaded between hyperventilating breaths, burying her head in her hands.

"Calm down," Severus grasped her wrists to stop her wild gesticulating, grimly studying his bruised throat—with pus and infection clearly visible—in the mirror mounted above the dresser. "We will think of something, but we cannot succumb to anxiety, or we will become reckless. Understood?" He squeezed her hands reassuringly to punctuate his point as she gazed up at him beseechingly. Severus possessed the invaluable ability to anchor and calm her at times like these, and she took a deep, bolstering breath and slowly nodded, although the tense anxiety lining her eyes faded only slightly. Her mind raced for answers as she began to clean the wound as best she could and replace the old bandages with fresh ones. When she finished, she leaned across him to pluck the final pain draught from the nightstand and handed it to him.

"You could use it," she assured him, and even though he still felt the heady effects of the first potion, he did as she said.

In the span of an hour, the second sedative had crept upon him so slowly that it had escaped his notice, with him only then feeling the anxiolytic properties of the potion begin to settle at the base of his spine and radiate outward to offer him some relief from the pain.

"I have some ideas," Hermione braved, breaking the silence.

"Tomorrow, Hermione, tomorrow," Severus replied with a weary sigh.

"Okay," she quietly conceded, eyes brimming with concern, but although she tried, she found she couldn't stifle her words, "My parent's had a circle of friends, among them some of London's elite, including doctors who wouldn't hesitate to grant me any favor I ask for—maybe we could…"

"That's a perfect way to end up a case study in some obscure medical journal when they have no way of knowing the dark nature of my injury or exactly how it was inflicted. It will be a glorified guessing game," he interjected.

Undeterred, she proudly postulated, "What if the darkness dies with the Horcrux?"

When he considered her theory, he couldn't really find fault in it, but it seemed so absurd to him that he didn't dare dignify it with an appropriate response, instead he chose to quip, "Well, I suppose there's always the imperious curse."

Hermione flashed him a devilish grin that gave him pause and made him also consider the fact that maybe he wasn't the best influence on her, when she wholeheartedly replied, "Exactly!"


	15. Never Let Me Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**A/N:** I wanted to write one more chapter about our characters' time at Spinner's End so the two of them could spend a bit more time getting to know each other better. The more plot-centric chapters are incoming, but I thought you all might like a little more lemony goodness before everything becomes much more complicated. I hope it isn't what one would consider gratuitous—I don't know where the line is on that. If someone would like to tell me where they think it is or if I've crossed it, I would be very happy to hear from you. Anyway, thank you everyone for your kind reviews and your support of my story—I appreciate you all (guests too, even though I can't thank you with a personal message like I usually do). As always, I love and encourage reviews if you have the time to leave one. I have another chapter nearly finished, which will be posted very soon. Thanks again. – C.C._

**XV. Never Let Me Go**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

The rain poured down at an angle, pelting the window with a gentle rhythm. Severus held Hermione flush against him as the rain's patter lulled him towards sleep. They'd come to an agreement to leave for London the following evening at midnight. The laudanum in the pain potion kept him half-anchored to his consciousness, leaving him to drift on a plane somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Just as he crossed into glorious unconsciousness, he heard her voice, heard the inevitable questions hiding behind her innocent calling of his name.

"Mmm…?" he murmured, hoping his sleepy voice would dissuade her from engaging him further. He could feel her wide, curious eyes upon him, so he opened one eye to glare at her, knowing his ruse was up. "Yes?" he replied, employing a new strategy of attempting to conceal his annoyance to spare her feelings, since something was obviously bothering her.

She hesitated before speaking; then she practically strung the words together in an awkward daisy-chain, just to get the uncomfortable thing out of her mouth faster. "I hate to sound like an after-school special…"

Stifling a snort, he reviewed his memories of the films his muggle teachers forced his class to watch in grammar school, which mostly consisted of "duck and cover" videos advising children of what to do in the event of nuclear war—hands over heads, bodies under desks, and think of England. Whatever she needed to say, he doubted it would be something he'd want to discuss willingly.

Finally, she blurted, "But, I don't think you're supposed to have sex if you can't talk about it."

When he chuckled at her non sequiter, she elbowed him in the ribs. "Is that all?" he drawled.

"Yes," she answered, crossing her arms, annoyed by his present inability to take her seriously.

"Aw, come on now," he placated her, rubbing her shoulder. After a pensive pause, he asked, "What do you wish to know?" No hint of condescension lurked behind his words.

"Well…" she began, caught off guard by his willingness to talk; she had anticipated more of struggle. "How many women have you been with?"

The fact that she could conceive of it being more than one gave him an inflated sense of pride in his abilities. "There was just the one girl—she was a Ravenclaw student in my year at Hogwarts. I wanted to make Lily jealous, a plan which obviously failed," he replied, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head.

"Did you love her?" she asked with genuine curiosity—the unspoken _do you love me?_ echoed in her head, but she let it remain un-voiced.

"No, no I didn't, not in the way you're supposed to love a person, anyway. I suppose I had my own sort of love for her. I'd always believed that 'I love you, but I'm not in love with you,' was simply a pandering line used by philanderers until I myself experienced it, but I think it aptly describes how I felt about her at one time."

She canted her head to the side. "Why did your relationship end?"

"At that point, I'd aligned myself with the Death Eater's, and attachments were particularly effective weapons of the Dark Lord. Even though I remained uncommitted to her, I did care for her, and I never wished any harm to come of her, so I ended it," he explained.

"Where is she today?"

"She died several years ago due to the backfiring of one of her own spells," he answered, strangely with none of the usual gravitas that such revelations require.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"Don't be. She certainly wouldn't have wanted anyone to feel sorry for her. She was one of those rare souls who truly believed that death was merely life's next 'awfully big adventure.'"

"And while we were intimate," he began, leaning on his elbow to face her, "What we had didn't mean anything. Not like this." She brightened when he gestured between them. Unsure if he truly wanted to know, he braved, "How about you?"

With a slight blush, her eyes darted from his face to the quilt on the bed, which she studied with renewed interest.

"Ah! Quid pro quo, Hermione," Severus teased, noting her reluctance.

"One other," she admitted, her voice dropping as she mumbled, "Viktor Krum."

Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, he admitted, "I must say that I'm happy to hear it was that lunkhead rather than that ginger prat. I've seen the way he looks at you." At least the brainless brute had the body of an Adonis, although he suddenly felt rather scrawny and altogether inadequate in comparison.

She seemed to intuit his self-consciousness when she rolled over to face him, running her hands through the light crop of hair on his chest and down to the curve of his groin. "But I prefer lean muscularity," she opined, her voice soft and sultry as she ran her hand down his thigh and then up to his shoulders and over the muscles banding his back. With Severus, she shared a carnal connection, enhanced by their cerebral nature—the flash of recognition she saw in his eyes when they joined physically, a shared awareness only afforded by the higher mind—of intimate inspiration, with bodies and souls entwining self-same—enjoying each other in a way that transcended the bounds of the physical. With Viktor, it had simply been rough rutting that she didn't enjoy very much in the first place. Only when a man stimulated her mind did he also arouse her physically—the two were inextricably linked. Severus too considered thought a crucial component of his sexuality; after wanting her for so long, just the realization that he now held her in his arms proved a powerful aphrodisiac.

His lips brushed her temple as he drawled, "And if Miss-needs-no-reassurance should find herself in need—in regards to being intimate, you are incredible. Your arms feel like home, your eyes feel like home, that blessed Eden between your pretty, pale thighs feels like home. Does that satisfy you?"

She gripped his hair at the roots and kissed him wildly. "Indeed, I believe it does." She delivered her demure conclusion after clearing her throat, her face flushed crimson. She nestled beside him again, and after a time, she asked, "How did you cope—all those years, alone?"

Severus remembered the sleepless nights in his bed at Hogwarts, dreaming about the very scenario he now found himself in—having Hermione in his arms, sharing his bed. Over the years, he'd spent many a night laying alone in the darkness of his dungeon bedroom pretending Lily was there with him, although more recently, his fantasies all involved Hermione. In all his pent up sexual frustration, he'd created imagined trysts between them, which he would recall nightly, clutching pillows or spooning empty air, struggling in vain to curb his desire for her—the ever-unknowing temptress. "The usual way one does when they're alone. More than I care to admit when you re-entered my life." He smiled against her shoulder and ran his palm up her flat stomach, whispering, "What else kept you sated all those years?"

"'The usual thing one does they're alone,'" she quoted coyly, peering over her shoulder, with her lips twisted in a vulpine smirk that he found positively irresistible.

Holding her in thrall with a heavy kiss, he ran his fingers lightly down the length of her arm before gently grasping her hand, placing it between her legs, his lips grazing her ear as he followed with an imploring purr, "Show me." His fingers skirted the curve of her waist, like the lithe torso of a violin—he longed to learn her body, learn the ways she liked to be touched, so he could play her as expertly as an instrument.

In hesitation, she looked up at him, her self-consciousness holding her back; however, when she caught the ravenous glint in his dark eyes, she found her concerns allayed. Finally, she nodded and slipped her hand between her thighs to touch the apex of her sex with delicate strokes of her deft and practiced fingertips. The sensual sight drained him of restraint, leaving him weak with arousal, basking in the radiant heat of her sexuality. Lovingly intent, he watched her, while he clutched her breasts and teased her pert nipples with eager fingertips.

With a sweet sigh, she arched into his touch, awash with the tingling sensation that pulsed deliciously from her breasts to her center. She bucked against his ready member in a way that made him groan with need, and he found he could no longer hold back; she felt his fingers splay her sex before he slowly slipped inside of her, drawing a moan from her as he assuaged the ache, satiating the primal void she'd needed filled. "Don't stop," he instructed huskily, grasping her hand, returning it to the starting place.

While she brought herself pleasure, he buried himself inside of her with a quiet groan as she tensed around him in a way that made his stomach clench as he grunted against her hair. When he laced his hand with hers to feel the way her fingers moved, she arched against him, and he felt the swell of her arse move against his hip; he couldn't help but close his eyes for a moment to relish in the sensation.

"Ahhh…" Hermione gave a soft cry as his hand rested heavy on her own. In response, he felt another pleasurable pulse of her pelvic muscles, which elicited a low groan from him, while he attempted to keep still and overcome his instinctual desire to take her roughly at that moment, even as she writhed beneath their hands.

Swallowing thickly, he whispered, "Let me," as he slipped his hand under hers, leading her to withdraw her own. In attempt to emulate her, he made small circles around her swollen clit with his fore- and middle-fingers, and she gasped as she acclimated to the sensation of having someone else touch her the way she did herself.

His breathing grew heavy as his strokes made her buck against him in rhythmic time; he continued his own deep, measured thrusts so he could feel the way her body responded to his touch, although he'd begun to find it maddening.

Failing in his attempt to employ the use of his silky whisper he knew made her weak in the knees, he groaned hoarsely, "Oh, Hermione, only you do this to me," putting more pressure on the pads of his fingertips.

Hermione mewled and ran her hands over her breasts the way he'd been doing, a sensual sight that left him desperately aroused in a way that was only rivaled by her next words. "This feels so right," she gasped—with a pulse of his flesh, he recognized the truth in her words, but a brief moment of clarity in the coital haze also forced him to admit, for a fleeting second, how gloriously wrong it all was—bedding his former student, his beautiful, brilliant former student. He swallowed and nuzzled her hair, fighting to think through the overpowering sensations wracking his body.

They moaned in concert as she threw her leg back over his thigh to give him more room to continue. Somehow maintaining that same sensual rhythm that drove her wild, he felt her shiver as her every muscle grew tense, pressed up against him.

"I-I'm close," she whimpered, her voice wavering, her eyes emphatically closed. With a raw groan of ecstasy, he felt the stomach-clenching confirmation of her statement.

"That's it, Hermione," he whispered in encouragement as he tried to concentrate enough to get her there. She reached up to caress his face and she made a pained noise, but he knew it wasn't pain, and he felt her bear down on his unbearably hard member in waves.

"T-that's it," he repeated, so softly and mostly for his own benefit. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her earlobe, between her shoulder blades in exaltation as she brought him pleasure, the likes of which he'd never felt before—or even come close. "Severus," she cried sharply, writhing under his touch, twisting her hips and riding his member. Distracted, Severus paused in his ministrations, and she cried out to tell him not to stop.

He touched her with long firm strokes as he gripped her soft flesh with his other hand and pressed his lips to her ear with muted whispers of approval, until she shuddered against him and cried out, her body quickly going lax, leaving her trembling and panting in his arms. As he felt the tapering waves of her orgasm, he also had to fight to catch his breath.

In that moment, when he saw her face contort with agonized ecstasy, he longed to tell her he loved her, but he didn't want to give her the inaccurate impression that his love for her was impurely motivated by sexual impulses. Lying as close as two people can, with him still inside of her, still fully aroused, he couldn't overcome the instinctual urge to move, his hips making slow thrusting movements in the direction of his own release. Feeling her like that and seeing her like that freed him from the prison of his mind with all its usual safeguards, leaving him disarmed and, dare he say, vulnerable, although he hated that word—it reeked of weakness—bringing unwanted images to mind, memories of hanging upside down by his ankle with no trousers. The brief thought that he was a therapist's dream also crossed his mind. In this vulnerable state, he felt liberated—amazed by the ease of articulating emotions usually too difficult for him to voice—and his unadulterated love for her never felt more meaningful.

"Please, keep going," she whispered, her eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with her climax.

He met her lips with a gracious kiss; he would've allowed her a moment without reciprocation, if she so desired. "Good girl," he purred. He knew it wouldn't take long—oh, how he longed to spill himself inside of her; there was something atavistic about it, like it somehow made her his Hermione and his alone.

Over all his years, he'd always wanted, but he never got what he wanted; before Hermione, he'd begun to assume that was his lot in life. Even as she flooded his senses, a sense of unreality remained—it seemed impossible to him, even as he listened to her sweet sighs and caught the familiar milky scent of her skin and the bergamot that tasted much better on her mouth—even as he buried himself inside of her near to the hilt, delighting in sliding a hand up her stomach to grip her soft breasts as he came with a strained groan of her name—even in the afterglow, as he touched her with loving caresses, feeling her body, dewy with sweat, which made her skin glimmer in the most beautiful of ways. It still felt like another man occupied his body, a stranger, a person split from him that night in the shack in some sort of quantum mitosis.

Just the proximity of touch thrilled him—no longer forbidden fruit, he could now simply reach for her, embrace her, feeling the sensual thrill of skin-on-skin he'd been deprived of nearly all his life, and she wouldn't pull away, she welcomed it hungrily—highly responsive, she shamelessly took what she wanted, so he could lose and find himself in her. Before, he considered dwelling on it a pitfall of thought, a part of the brain partitioned off, a void left by the natural part of the human experience he only experienced fleetingly in his youth; he didn't want to fall into that lacuna, that started with his mother and ended with Lily.

The physiology of touch also fascinated him—the raw, rare, chemical attraction between two people—the exhilaration of feeling of her hands on his body. Touching her in innocent ways felt sublime, let alone those more intimate caresses. It felt as if they shared a wavelength, with the resultant crackle of electricity seeming to pulse through her fingertips and jump to his body unimpeded. When the oxytocin washed over his brain, he felt like a new man. And when she aroused him, she stirred his primal instincts, stirred a driving need that gave him a visceral sense of virility and strengthened his sense of masculinity—he couldn't get enough of her. For a moment, he entertained the thought of staying at Spinner's End indefinitely, and although he wanted to deny the impracticality of such a thought, he felt the dull ache of hunger in his stomach and knew, in reality, it would be impossible. Then, la petite mort and laudanum carried him away on an opium breeze.

* * *

The nervousness Hermione had felt the night prior to their assault on Gringotts began roiling in her stomach again as she struggled to fall asleep. Severus touched her with idle caresses; she'd given him another pain potion until they could speak to a medical professional, and he continued to lapse in and out of consciousness.

In a moment of wakefulness, his hand came to rest on her abdomen, and then a thought occurred to him. "Don't you want children?" He murmured, fearing her answer.

"No, I've never had the desire for _progeny_ ," she answered with a sleepy shrug.

"That doesn't mean you won't change your mind in the future," he said softly.

"Have you changed your mind?" she countered, and he realized in all his years his stance on that particular issue had never wavered. To him, it seemed like the cruelest act of all, just to bring something into existence, something that never had to be at all, only for it to inevitably die—the ultimate narcissism, engendering a child just to have a shadow of one's self, essentially creating and murdering their darlings all in the same second of conception.

Now that he'd gotten that uncompromising question out of the way, still more questions bombarded his brain, leading him to sigh and restlessly move his hands.

"Is something on your mind?" she asked, lacing her fingers with his.

Without prelude, he decided to jump in with both feet. "Do you remember your fourth year, when the Prophet published an article portraying you as a supposed temptress toying with the hearts of famous boys?" he asked softly.

"You mean the one you read aloud to the entire class? No, I can't say I recall," she teased.

"Please, hear me out. You became the target of a handful of articles that year, articles that assassinated your character and accused you of having ulterior motives in your friendships. I remember you being very sensitive to such unfounded and unfair insinuations, when, in reality, your only crime was your association with Potter. In my observation, it seemed to wreak havoc in your personal life and led the other students to believe the lies she printed. It was a mark, however undeserved, on your pristine reputation. I do not wish for you to suffer through such mudslinging on my account. That's my burden to bear." He sighed, before adding, "I just want you to know, you do not owe me; you are free and clear if you wish."

"You said it yourself, I was initiated into the unforgiving world of the press and tried in the court of public opinion when I was but fourteen, and yes, maybe at that young age, I wasn't equipped to handle it, but now, I am an adult, one who has been sufficiently schooled in such matters," she countered.

"I do not fear for the imminent possibility of having my name dragged through the mud because I'm used to it and once they've dragged you through it enough times, it becomes impossible to get any dirtier. This is all old news to me, but I would loathe for your name to be thrown in with mine, making you guilty by mere association, and if that were to happen, which does seem imminent at this point—I don't think you realize the severity of the consequences that could befall you."

She gave a weary sigh and duly inquired, "What do you mean?"

"I will elaborate—save your questions for when I've finished. While serving as headmaster, I tirelessly strived to protect the students under my care, but the Carrows' penchant for corporal punishment forced me to allow some children to slip through the cracks, enough of them to sate their barbarism, so they would remain convinced of my loyalty. In those cases, I made certain that none of the victims of their dark brand of discipline were irreparably harmed, but those children are no more forgiving for knowing that, and I can't blame them Those students have parents who associate me with all the ill that has befallen the wizarding world, parents who believe my name is synonymous with the Dark Lord's, because from a distance, the distinctions between where my authority ended and the Carrows' began are much less clear."

"The Death Eaters are without morals by design, so not a single one will continue to associate with me, the turncoat who sent it all crashing down around them a second time, the pariah who will more than likely be a critical player in their sentencing. A former fellow awaiting an indefinite future behind bars will have nothing to lose and therefore zero qualms about taking out a hit on me or doing the deed themselves, with the full support of the rest of the fallen organization. Bellatrix will certainly not rest until my head is on a pike for betraying the Dark Lord and handing her a one-way ticket back to a heavily refortified Azkaban. The Malfoys will fall in line to deflect criticism and scrutiny away from their own involvement, but likely will never initiate any retributive action towards me, because I took and upheld the Unbreakable Vow to protect their son."

"Goyle's father is not a forgiving man, and the death of his son while ostensibly under my leadership effectively guarantees me some sort of revenge at his hands. Fenrir requires little—if any reason—in retaliating. His thirst for human blood and flesh does not bode well for me either. The Carrows, however hopelessly stupid they are, will eventually have the facts elucidated for them enough times for them to realize I was playing games with them the entire year, and the two of them can be as ruthless as they are moronic."

"In the unlikely event that they all survived?" she queried with an exasperated eye roll.

With a quick glare, he pressed on without acknowledging her. "The ministry will be under fire on all sides if they support my so-called innocence, and they are a spineless institution with a history of calming public discord over the exposure of the truth. Maybe one day, many years after my death, modern historians will reevaluate my role and amend the annals of history so that I'm looked upon fondly, but that is, truly, the best outcome I can hope for."

She made as if to interrupt, but he spoke over her—he had to say his peace. "Hermione, let me word this another way. All the things I stated previously in reference to the state of my life and my potential as a target post-war are completely inconsequential to me personally. What bothers me and is that the inevitable fallout isn't limited to me in its effects. However unfair, you will be subjected to the same intense, fault-finding scrutiny right along with me."

"You will no longer control the flow of information; the flow of information will have control over you, with the ability to negatively affect your life in ways you can't even imagine. The public finding out that you and I are involved will spark speculation. Most will assume we've been involved for far longer than we have, likely believing that the whole thing started while you were underage; people will assume I took advantage of you when you were vulnerable, or that I used my status as a Death Eater to force you into some sort of submissive sexual role, and if you protest, asserting that isn't accurate, people will assume I've got you firmly under my thumb through the use of threats or my position or dark magic."

"Some will undoubtedly believe that you were involved in the atrocities I've committed in recent years, working in tandem with me or even masterminding the entire thing for me, the unwanted and desperate man beholden to you. You will be both a temptress and an innocent, a whore and a virgin victim. People will scour your past for information they can spin similarly; no matter how extraneous, inconsequential, irrelevant, or obscure, they will discover tidbits they can utilize as a means to whatever end they've got in mind."

"They will say you're with me because you were abused by your father or unloved by your mother or both; they will say my emotional growth was stunted or that I'm a deviant that's been working up to pouncing on you for over seven years. You will be a feature in the paper whenever there's a slow news day or when another detail of your life comes to light or is meticulously unearthed by some low-level investigative reporter with too much free time and an unhealthy amount of interest in you."

"People you once counted among your friends will betray you, and you'll never know who is going to fold next, whether because they need money or a bask in the limelight; they will tell salacious stories, exaggerated or imagined or some combination of the two that they think will sound more believable or that will be more difficult for you to deny in totality. They will attempt to break us apart for another headline, hoping we will each turn on the other and go to the press with the 'true' story."

"Because of your involvement with me, your efforts in the war will be diminished or reassigned to other more likeable or more story-ready figures with unblemished histories and your efforts to set the story straight will be viewed as thunder-stealing and common envy. The consequences I have mentioned thus far are emotionally devastating but not actually damaging in the true sense of the word. That, however, doesn't eliminate the possibility that something sparks a controversy that spirals out of control to the point where it necessitates some form of lawful intervention."

"If a person with enough clout gives an interview and states that they knew you to be a turncoat right along with me, that one false statement with the support of someone the masses consider 'trustworthy' becomes enough probable cause to warrant an investigation, which will more often than not, still be a waste of time, but if you refuse to fall in line with the publics' expectations of you often enough, one of those false assertions is bound to stick, possibly ruining your career or earning you a small stint in Azkaban for your purported involvement under my coercion."

"I do not wish to be the albatross forever around your neck." Severus lightly clasped his hand to her neck, stroking her throat with his fingers.

"Severus, I can't handle the self-deprecation. It's a drag," she muttered, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers. "Why must you always talk yourself out of being happy?"

"I'm serious, Hermione."

She stared at him and spoke slowly and softly, "Is that what you want? You want me to leave you, is that it?"

"Is that what I want?" he repeated, scanning her face. She nodded, her expression forcibly vacant and inscrutable, although he did see her lip twitch slightly. Severus wondered if he should say it was he wanted, to spare her from all the fallout he'd mentioned—wouldn't that be the noble thing to do? But looking into her lovely dark brown honey-tinged eyes, the words refused to form. "Of course not," he finally replied, "I just want you to know what lies ahead for us, so you're not blindsided like I was after the first wizarding war. And, if those consequences seem untenable, I care about you and want you to put your self-interests far ahead of my own. I will do or say whatever it takes to absolve you of any wrongdoing."

"You've told me so often that I don't know what I want, but if you care about someone, you need to realize they deserve the right to make their own choices about their future, and that they alone are responsible for those choices—your guilt shouldn't be affected by the outcome, good or bad."

"It's like you with your parents—you're love for them mandated that you make the choice to obliviate them to keep them safe, even though it went against your own interests and your need for support in such a trying time. I love you, and I've always heard when you love someone—truly love someone—you're supposed to let them go if it's better for them to be without you." At that moment, he realized in horror what he'd just inadvertently revealed; he'd gotten caught up in the moment and said it without thinking. On bated breath, he awaited her response. Curled around her, he could feel her body go rigid as she turned to gape at him. Breathless, he tried to speak, tried to take it back, but no words came out.

Upon hearing his revelation, she felt her ears burn and sound dulled and her mind spun with the fact that the love she'd long harbored was reciprocated. She saw his shields go up again in quick rebound, with him beating a hasty retreat back into the fortress behind his eyes. She rolled over to face him, reaching up to caress his cheek with a wrenching pang of empathy, realizing how much emotional currency it must have cost him to be the first one of them to say those three little words.

Tears began to well in her eyes, leaving him looking aghast, fearing he'd said something out of line. "And I love you," she replied, wrapping her arms around him and giving him a soft kiss. With tears dripping down her face, she leaned against his forehead, her voice breaking when she softly implored, "Please, don't let me go."


	16. Crossing the Rubicon

**XVI. Crossing the Rubicon**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

The split-second change in her countenance affected him immediately, alarmed when he saw the sadness break through her eyes a moment before she pressed them closed. A sad smile crossed her lips, the smile getting his hopes up in spite of sadness that tempered it. He drew his attention to her gaze, chagrined to see tear droplets collecting in her lashes and streaming from eyes tightly closed to drip down her face, a tear-drop hanging suspended on her chin. In attempt to speak, he paled when, in a nightmare come to life, his mouth moved but no words came out.

In the depths of his soul, he knew she reciprocated, yet he still assumed her tears heralded her forthcoming rejection, assumed the heavy silence between them stemmed from the weight of her indecision. Studying her face, he braced himself for the potentially crushing blow. Then, before he realized it, she’d wrapped her arms around him and then met his lips in a tender kiss, responding with a reciprocal revelation that hit him with a rush of relief and a plaintive plea that dealt him a sobering blow that landed like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving his throat tightening as shame sank his stomach.

The saucer-size widening of her soft brown eyes had conveyed her comment well enough, the intentness of her gaze compelling him to reply without another word crossing her lips. The silence lingered between them, and her teary plea continued to plague him with guilt, ashamed for scaring her with his breathless rush of prediction. It seemed, in his attempt to keep her from further harm, he’d wounded her without meaning to, and he hated himself for it.

The thoughts had been stewing in his mind for days—new predictions steadily bubbling to the surface like a potion left to boil. When he’d detailed the myriad of potential consequences that could befall them, burdening her with the onus of doubt had been far from his initial intention. In the interest of full disclosure, he’d expounded on his looming concerns of the future, hoping to impart her with the knowledge he’d collected and processed in his own mind, not to confront her with a portentous and staggering portrait of the future—essentially ripping her rosy lenses off and smashing them to bits. Now, he realized he’d owed it to her to keep quiet, to bear the burden of those heavy thoughts himself without sharing it like a contagion—he’d made her suffer unfairly to calm the maelstrom of his own mind. Only accustomed to minding himself, he’d never had to accommodate for another’s mind with careful consideration and tact.

At times, he wondered if the cowardice he’d so often been accused of kept him from acting as a nobler man—if he possessed the strength of resolve and fortitude of conscience, would he be able to cut her loose her against her will and her many protestations in the name of her safety, releasing her to save her from a fate far worse than losing him? The obstacles he’d outlined before lingered, looming in his mind with foreboding, and he wished he didn’t realize that at least a handful of those outcomes would come to pass.

Hearing her sweet echo to his sentiment had his heart thrumming with his adoration of her, but hearing her express her absolute vulnerability tempered with such doubt stirred the yearning ache in his breast with a sharp pang to his heart. The doubt that tarnished her sentiment and anguished his heart left him longing to rewind and lift its burden from her mind. Drawing her into him, he clung to her, holding her flush against him in a way that he hoped made clear to her that his fear of her one day choosing to let him go felt as raw and real as her own.

The circumstances reminded of the night he came alive in the shack—at first, although it had escaped her notice, with her vision occluded by tears and her head buried in the cradle of her arms, he’d stared at the top of her head in a sort of stasis, wondering if the scene before him was even real; the only thing that had given him pause was the wound at his throat, matted with her hair and stinging, exposed against the air. Within her desperate dream-embrace, his skepticism had remained, even as he put his own shaky, surely incorporeal arms around her, expecting her mirage to dissipate at first touch.

This night, he held her with the same hunger, clinging onto her for dear life, his searching hands feeling all around her body to assure himself of the reality of the situation, except this time, after exhaling a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, he allowed himself to feel awash with contentedness, after he’d been forced to quell his feelings for so long, banishing them to the borders of his consciousness, desperately hidden in the smallest of chambers in the depths of himself. No matter how far down he’d buried his growing affection for her, it had always sparked to life at the littlest things—an accidental brush of her hand, noticing the little trinity of freckles below her golden-brown eyes that could incapacitate him with a soft look. Embracing her purged his mind of stress, eased the scourge of his soul, and he’d never felt more content; time stretched and warped as they held each other, and Severus had no wish for it to end.

For Hermione, envisioning the future in the manner he’d described left her with a mental picture that panned by in a dizzying blur that overwhelmed her. The many branches of future possibility had been elucidated to her with startling clarity. She’d contented to stand with her back to their impending reality, blissful in ignorance. But when she heard those three words, time had stilled and everything he’d said after his revelation had been reduced to noise alone. Content to let him decipher his feelings in his own time, she’d been shocked yet thrilled to hear the words pass his lips this soon. She’d watched the emotions flicker across his face and shine in his dark eyes, which flashed with a look of having been caught off guard, eyes which seemed to scrutinize her own reaction in turn. She saw him look away, his expression darkening as his shame colored his cheeks. She could tell his thoughts were racing by the way he looked through her instead of at her.

She stared at him in silence until he lifted his head, hardly able to look her in the eye. When he finally did meet her eyes, his searched her face as if it contained an epiphany. Then, she watched his defenses again go down, and with a swell of sympathy, she saw behind his eyes, weary with his years, the raw wounds where past longing had caused his self-imposed fetters to cut flesh; she longed to assuage his ache, lick his wounds and cleanse them with her real desire. The multi-faceted nature of his reaction finally made sense to her, perfect sense when she considered the history of the man before her—maternal affection withheld, romantic love denied to him, wary of truly trusting too soon—suspicious of anyone claiming to love him in the same way he loved them.

The moment he met her tender gaze, he saw her own eyes full of reciprocation, and he realized—who was he fooling? In spite of all he’d said, he had no desire to let her go, he never had; in truth, they’d have to pry her from his rigor-mortis-ridden hands first—they were in this together, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. “I have no intention of letting you go,” he whispered the words in earnest, his smile reaching his eyes, eyes warm and brimming with confidence—truly a sight to behold. “I love you, Hermione. I don’t deserve you, but I’m hopelessly in love with you.”

She blissfully let the words caress her throat and reach her ears, evoking flutters in her heart, muted echoes of them pulsing in her abdomen. “I don’t know anyone more deserving of my love, Severus,” came her breathless whisper. “I love you, equally hopelessly.” The words soothed his brain and being, still reeling with shame and the perpetual pulse of guilt. Eventually they both managed to fall into a light sleep in each other’s arms, with both of them occasionally drifting in and out of consciousness; in moments of wakefulness, he’d whisper it in her ear again, relishing in hearing her sleepily say it back to him.

But with his hand resting on her side, a sobering thought occurred to him—he realized that what were once merely rib bones had become bars lining the cage that now imprisoned her heart. The blame rested solely with him, because when he told her that he loved her, he’d effectively grabbed her fluttering heart, thrown it in a trap, slammed the door, and locked it away. Before, he felt that, with enough effort, he could have convinced her to leave him in the name of self-preservation, but certainly not now, when her heart belonged to him. She’d willingly—nay, eagerly—chained herself to him, and what he considered her prison, she considered a home, the bird of her heart content to sing in the presence of its captor instead of breaking out to take its freedom in the skies.

Likewise, his heart belonged to her, but he’d be content to let it wither in his breast being apart from her if only he could keep her safe and free from harm. While he’d assumed they had crossed the Rubicon when they consummated their relationship, he realized that they’d merely forded one of its tributaries. They’d reached the true point of no return the moment his admission of love escaped his lips—no turning back now.

* * *

 

Severus’s eyes followed the tip of Hermione’s wand as she flitted and flicked it around the individual features of his face, using transfiguration to alter his appearance. The feeling of cool air on the nape of his neck led him to deduce that she’d shortened his hair, but when he looked in the mirror, he realized she’d also changed the color of it to grey, his dark eyes to a lighter brown, and made his nose a little less prominent. With a change of clothes, he believed he could pass for someone else.

“Now, my turn,” she said on a sigh as they switched places, with her taking a seat on the edge of the bed. He loathed changing her appearance, even temporarily, but he knew it was a necessary evil. With a few waves of his wand, he’d darkened her golden brown hair to dark brunette, straightened it, and given her a little fringe; he lightened her eyes to hazel, avoiding green, and he erased her freckles and re-shaped her nose, making it a bit daintier to hide its distinct button-like shape.

She urged him closer towards the mirror, where she hung on his arm as they examined themselves in the glass. “Good job,” she remarked genuinely, running her fingers through her slick hair in appreciation, loving the lack of tangles.

“I think that you’ve improved upon my appearance as well,” he remarked, running a hand through his hair, appreciating the style but not her choice of grey, which unfortunately made him look even more like his father. “So, what’s our story?” he asked, putting his arm around her. Noticing her hesitant sideways glance in the mirror, he tilted his head questioningly.

“Well, if we’re questioned, I think the only believable relationship for us to claim we have would be father-daughter or uncle-niece. If we say that we’re together, we’re only going to attract more attention and scrutiny.”

Before she could even finish, she heard his reply, a sharp staccato, “No.” The implications of such a measure made him feel squicky, but he relented with a sigh when he realized she most likely had it right, “I’m your father, taking you to London to visit the British museum for a University project. Now, what’s your project?” He pointed at her with an improv-like hand-off.

“I’m an art history student, visiting the museum to study the presentation of Hades and Persephone in red attic figure vases,” she answered without missing a beat.

“Hades and Persephone?” He regarded her with a knowing smirk. “Now where on earth did that come from?”

“I believe that the myth is rather suited to you and me, don’t you think?” she asked with a lilt in her voice.

“I do not recall kidnapping you and dragging you here,” he drawled, grasping her waist as he bent forward and added in sotto voce, “But at times, oh, how I wanted to.”

Her lips quirked into a shy smile, and she elaborated, “My dad always used to take me to the museum every few months. One thing that stood out to me was a kylix featuring Hades and Persephone among a larger exhibit of Greek pottery. They entitled it ‘Partying with Death’—so much for erudition!” she scoffed, rolling her eyes.

Severus smirked at how riled she became over a mistitled of a museum piece, but he couldn’t help but appreciate her passion. “By the way, what’s my name?” she asked.

For a moment, he considered her question, until he answered, “Charlotte, and mine?”

“Sidney,” she proclaimed without hesitation; apparently, she’d been better prepared for the “name” conversation; he assumed the name had some significance attached, but he left his inquiry for later; they had more pressing things to attend to as the clock neared midnight.

Withdrawing a map of the underground from his coat pocket, he deftly unfolded it and spread it across the bed, running his index finger along the line demarcating their chosen route as he spoke of it, “Anyway, if anyone has even the slightest suspicion that I staged my own death, then someone will be patrolling the perimeter, because while the house itself is invisible to all, its general whereabouts are known by those who’ve been here in the past.

“The Fidelius Charm is a fickle mistress. Obviously, we cannot travel in the conventional wizarding ways—there could be a trace on one or both of our names and the ministry-controlled floo network is also out of the question. We will need to utilize muggle means of transportation, which, thankfully, you and I are both somewhat familiar with—we’ll take the underground to London. And you are certain none of your friends know where you live?”

“No, none of my friends have visited me there—I kept it that way for times like these.”

“Ah, clever girl,” he remarked silkily. “Where in London do you live?” he asked, when he realized he also didn’t have the slightest idea.

“Hampstead Heath,” she replied, and he arched his eyebrows at her answer—while he’d assumed her parents had means, he never would have guessed they were wealthy enough to have their roots planted in the Heath. While the Malfoys were redolent of wealth, Hermione seemed like the poster child for a two-parent, middle-class upbringing.

Hermione handed him a folded stack of clothes. “Wear these. Don’t argue,” she cautioned, wagging her finger.

Without complaint, he changed out of his other clothes and pulled the grey turtleneck over his head, slipping the black blazer she’d selected overtop of it; she’d allowed him to wear his own pants, nondescript and black, and the only item he really objected to was a thin burgundy scarf, but he wrapped it around his neck and threw the excess over his shoulder without comment.

She wore a black peplum blouse that she asked him to zip for her, holding her hair away from the zipper’s silver teeth, completing the look with a black pencil skirt. While she didn’t always walk with typical womanly grace, he appreciated the way the skirt accentuated her arse, even though it further restricted her gait.

With the essentials already packed, they headed downstairs to the sitting room. After their earlier conversation, Hermione realized those little photographs of his parents _were_ two of the only remnants of the fact that they’d ever inhabited the house. When she looked more closely, she could tell that the interior had obviously been refurbished to Severus’s liking, sharing the same dark air as the dungeons and his classroom, with the effect of constant night that lent to his air of mystery. A yellowing, dated copy of the Daily Prophet spread across an end-table in sections gave the only inkling that the house belonged to a wizard and not simply an eccentric muggle. She wondered how his neighbors regarded him, with his curious manner of dress and misanthropic behavior. She imagined no one knocked on his door to borrow that quintessential neighborly ensign, a cup of sugar.

She eyed him curiously as he began pushing the furniture around, moving it off of a black oriental rug with a fading labyrinthine design of gold filigree and red fringed edges. When he’d cleared the rug of the furniture that had been pinning it down, he knelt on the floor and began rolling the carpet into a scroll. She heard him murmur a revealing spell under his breath, which made a trapdoor appear in the floor.

“You have a panic room?” she quipped with his classic brow arch.

“It’s not a panic room,” he replied, shooting a feigned a glare at her and her snarky remark. “It’s a lab. Come with me.” With his hand on the small of her back, he led her to the edge of doorway; when he lifted its ringed handle, below she saw only a square of pitch black. He jumped down first, but she hesitated. “Come on now,” he urged. Noting her uneasiness, he explained, “The ceilings are quite low. It’s warded against magic, but I’ve installed lights. I’ll even catch you.”

Closing her eyes, she sat on the edge of the door, slowly inching forward until she slid into the darkness below. True to his word, he half-caught her when she landed on him and half-cushioned her fall. She quickly scrambled to her feet and attempted to help him up off the cold floor. Once upright, she held tight to him to him; they could only feel each other in the dark. “I’m sorry,” she apologized as he brushed off his robes, shaking his head at her with a small smirk that she couldn’t see. He palpated the wall, searching for the light-switch until he felt its flat surface among the rough stones.

When the Edison bulbs strung overhead hummed to life, she realized his upstairs potions cabinet held only a fraction of his inventory. On the shelf she faced, an array of diaphanous creatures floated in bright formaldehyde, on display like some macabre menagerie. The many glinting vials of rare ingredients glimmered in her eyes as she turned in every direction, scanning the shelves with covetous delight. “I thought your upstairs stores were a little lackluster for a potion’s master,” she admitted.

“Is this more what you had envisioned?” he asked with a smirk as he located the ingredients he wished to take with him, before carefully placing them down into her beaded bag. “Give potential thieves the illusion that it’s all you have, and they’ll search no further.”

His last remark failed to register with her—something in the corner of the room had caught her attention. She approached a locked trunk made of black walnut, carved with an intricate arabesque, and knelt down to better examine it. “What’s in here?” she asked.

“I was getting to that,” he murmured, striding over to her. The trunk clicked open with a non-verbal spell, and as she peered over the side to examine its contents, her mouth fell open. Stacks of muggle money jutted out like weeds from a mountain of galleons, next to a leather-bound herbarium and a chipped stone penseive.

“Being a single man with room and food expenses already coming out of my salary each month, I realized there was little else I needed money for, so I saved the rest, put it in my vault at Gringotts for just such a time as this,” he explained as he knelt down beside her on the floor.

“Clever boy,” she echoed, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face, eliciting the smallest of smiles.

“Two years ago, after the day of reckoning that marked the return of the Dark Lord, I knew our world was soon to be destabilized, so I began to visit Gringotts twice monthly, making withdrawals each time, until only twenty-five percent of my original account balance remained. It still left a sizable sum, and I continued to make small deposits, so anyone inclined to freeze my accounts would be none the wiser, sitting in smug satisfaction, thinking they’d cut off my only financial resource. Lucius and I came to an agreement, where if his assets were seized, he would claim my money was among the seizure, and vice versa. Lord knows if he’s upheld his end of the bargain at this point,” he scoffed, aware his friend’s greed superseded any gentleman’s agreement. “I didn’t trust Gringotts not to cave to the will of the ministry.”

“Then, I exchanged fifty percent of my withdrawn balance for muggle currency in various measures—pounds, euros, francs—so if I ever needed to disappear, I would have accounted for every contingency. I’ve opened this trunk many times before, summoning the will to leave everything behind. I suppose that makes me a coward,” his eyes flickered over her face, and the way he worded the last statement indicated a question where there was none.

“Bravery is the actions you ultimately chose to take, not those thoughts you only considered,” she gently reminded him. Sensing her kind eyes upon him even as he looked away, he nodded once in acknowledgement before he began scooping handfuls of galleons into her beaded bag, while she sorted out the bills and bound them with hair ties before also inserting them in the purse. When he’d plucked the last coin from the bottom of the trunk, he picked up the penseive and dusted it off with his sleeve before adding it to the contents of the bag.

Only the herbarium remained, with no name to be found on its cracked leather bindings, its pages crinkled with spaces between, where the plants had refused to press themselves fully flat. Finally, he withdrew it from the trunk and regarded it with a look of confliction. She wondered what differentiated that battered book from the hundreds of other books upstairs. Why did he lock it away with his other valuables?

“Severus?” she said softly, covering his hand with her own. “You can just put it in the bag. You don’t even have to tell me what it is if you don’t want to talk about it,” she offered.

The torn edge of a piece of notebook paper seemed to serve as a bookmark, and when he opened the book, he sighed and turned immediately to that particular page. She read the header of the page and found that it answered all her earlier questions— _Liliaceae_. In his small script, he’d written the scientific name corresponding with each lily pressed between the two pages—white Easter lilies with browning edges, pink-tinged stargazer lilies, tiger lilies the same color as her hair. The makeshift bookmark turned out to the ripped section of a letter from the human Lily, not to him, but to one of James’ friends, Hermione realized. In closing, she’d written the word “love,” and she immediately understood why he’d kept it.

From the ripped half of a photograph caught in the crease between the pages, Lily smiled out at them, before turning her smile to the ones missing from the picture’s other half—this movement repeating on a loop as they both stared at the picture. After a time, he reached a quiet conclusion, “I don’t think I need to bring it. Looking at it no longer incapacitates me as it once did. The fond memories I have of her are just that, and now, they’re in the past where I intend for them to stay.”

“If not for her, you wouldn’t be the man I know today, so I suppose I owe her thanks, and I don’t mind if you bring it. She was part of your life, entirely separate from our life together; I’m not one of those foolish girls who finds herself jealous of ghosts. I understand how important she was to you at one time, and I respect that. If worst comes to worst and the remaining Death Eaters burn this place to the ground, I don’t want you to regret leaving it behind,” she finished.

His eyes darted between the book and the bag, until he finally decided to bring it along, grateful Hermione had demonstrated such maturity and understanding. Grabbing a ladder mounted to wall, he situated it against the doorway in the ceiling, and gestured for Hermione to ascend first. After shutting off the lights and following suit, he kicked the ladder back into the darkness below with a clatter. Once he’d re-concealed the doorway, he returned the rug and the furniture to their rightful places.

Hermione found herself hyper-aware of the metronomic sound of the clock ticking away on the mantle as its hands inched ever-closer to midnight. They both eyed the door with apprehension and a hint of fear, fear of the unknown, fear of real-life Bogarts lurking in the dark. From where he stood behind her, he grasped her shoulders, urging her to turn and face him; when she did, he pressed her against the door and insinuated his leg between her thighs, his fingers running through her unfamiliar hair, before kissing her like he’d never have another chance. Although he’d caught her off guard, she melted against him and kissed him with equal ardor. When their lips were forced to part, he leaned against her forehead, and she caught more than a hint of fear in his sad eyes as he lovingly stroked the side of her face, the set of his jaw indicative of grim resolve and finality; he studied her intently, memorizing her face in case their bare-bones plan went terribly wrong.

She knew he needed reassurance; he needed to hear her say it to give him the courage to cross that threshold and step into the night. She rested her head against his chest and softly reassured him, “I love you. I love you, and we are going to be fine. I always succeed, remember?” She tried to affect surety in her voice, unsure if she succeeded.

A small smile crossed his lips at the memory of the night of their clandestine meeting on the beach outside of the Shell Cottage. “Yes, I remember.” After taking a deep breath, he asked her the question that had her summoning her own courage, although she didn’t answer truthfully, because when the words, “Are you ready to depart?” crossed his lips, she donned her pea coat, pulling the hood down halfway over her face as she gave an affirmative nod, even as her palpable fear forced her to fold hands together to conceal her trembling.

She opened the curtains of Slytherin green and peaked through the thick wood slats of the blinds, surveying the street for anyone lurking in the dark, although the dim light of the only working streetlamp on his block of terraces left her visibility impaired. Still, she saw no one, but nonetheless twisted her wand through the ponytail of her half-updo for ease of access. Severus made one last round through the house to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything of importance, before throwing on his own coat, a khaki half trench-coat that Hermione had assured him would draw less suspicion than his usual hooded cloak.

When he took a step towards the door, she walked in front of him and held her hand to his chest to stop him. “One more thing,” she added, her arm elbow-deep in the beaded bag, grappling for something within. She withdrew a pair of reading glasses and slipped them on his face before clasping her hands together and proclaiming, “Perfect.”

 

After shutting the door behind them, they each scanned the street and found it deserted. A light wind carried with it the putrid smell of the canals, leading her to cover her nose with her sleeve, breathing in the scent of the fabric to keep from gagging. It didn’t seem to bother Severus, although being a native of the mill town she assumed he’d grown accustomed to the polluted air to the point where he hardly noticed the smell.

Since he knew the way to the underground, she followed a step behind him as they darted down the street, turning a sharp corner at a brick-wall, linked to Severus’s block of terraces by an archway. The pendant lanterns bracketed to the bricks swayed with an eerie creak in the light wind, their amber glow lighting their passage as they made their way through the labyrinthine layout of the streets of Cokeworth, where row after row after row of terraced housing made establishing landmarks nearly impossible.

Lights from basement windows made the stagnant puddles glow as they splashed through them on their way. Down narrow alleyways, he reached back to grasp her wrists, ensuring she stayed behind him just in case, leery of the looming threat of the violence rife in that part of the city. They passed pubs and shops on the riverfront, all closed for the night. Wrought iron streetlamps lined the disused canals, attracting a flurry of moths, the lamps acting as projectors, throwing their long shadows on the opposite walls to pursue them through the night.

They took a few shortcuts through small backyards of sickly yellow-green grass, with the occasional tree withering in the wrought-iron cage at its base. “When I was a child, I could tell which dye color they were using in the textile mill by the color the rivers ran,” he shared, breaking the silence, before noticing her slightly amused expression and adding with a small shrug, “There was not much to do.”

Finally, they reached the substation. Hermione cast one look back at Cokeworth, where clusters of noticulent clouds appeared to billow from the large chimneys that had fallen into disrepair, like an echo of the smoke and steam of the industrial era. Then the two descended the stairs into greenish glow of the concrete cavern below. Out of habit, Hermione grasped the railing, but quickly let go when she felt a sticky mystery substance coating the bar. The low fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered in a way that registered just on the cusp of Severus’s perception, yet somehow conspicuously enough to trigger the beginnings of a headache. Their footsteps echoed on the cold tile as they approached a bench. Hermione draped her coat over her seat to prevent any more sticky surprises. The overwhelmingly gray station smelled of wet coins and the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke.

The incoming train shook the whole underground, making loose gravel jump on the pavement, until it screeched to a halt a few feet away from them. Severus held Hermione’s coat open as she shrugged it back onto her shoulders. A vagrant approached her, begging for spare pocket change; she hung back, digging through her pockets, until he tugged her forward before the train departed without them.

Upon boarding, he experienced a rush of relief when he learned how few people travelled that particular line at one in the morning. They took their seat, across from a bedraggled woman slumped in sleep; another man with empty eyes stared straight forward throughout the duration of the ride, making Hermione terribly uncomfortable. He longed to place a comforting kiss on her cheek, but with their age difference emphasized by his gray hair and her youthful dress, it truly would only draw more scrutiny, although no one currently on board seemed all that interested in anyone but themselves.

A few more straggled onto the tube at the next stop, mostly drunken university students on their way home for the night. One young man sat across from them, his eyes glassy with the drink he’d imbibed that night, his pores seeping alcohol. Out of all the empty seats, he chose to sit next to the sleeping woman across from them; concerned, Severus had begun to believe he should check her pulse to make sure her sleep hadn’t lapsed into that of the eternal variety, but then the snoring started. The young man sat on the edge of the bench, so that his knees nearly touched Hermione’s, leading her to slant her legs toward Severus.

“I don’t bite, love,” he laughed. “Are you with him?” he asked, his eyes flitting to Severus and back to Hermione, his pupils jumping all the while.

“No,” Hermione scoffed. “He’s my father.”

“Yeah, I can see the resemblance,” he remarked, rubbing his ruddy eyelids, leading Hermione and Severus to look between each other in distress.

“We’ve had a long trip. I imagine you will understand if we don’t feel much like conversing,” drawled Severus, his annoyance prickling through his tact.

“You look familiar,” the boy said, scrutinizing Hermione’s face in a way that rendered her immediately uncomfortable.

“I doubt that,” she replied with an unconvincing laugh, “We’re not from around here.”

His glassy eyes seemed to move in and out of focus as he swayed with the effect of the alcohol, exacerbated by the jostling train. “Nah,” he repeated, “I’ve definitely seen you before.”

When she made as if to reach for the wand in her hair, Severus gripped her wrist to stop her from making a rash decision; besides, he knew an endless list of non-verbal spells that could silence the boy and bring him into immediate submission if the situation were to escalate in a manner that required it.

“Perhaps, you encountered my doppelganger?” she braved, desperate to move away from the subject.

“Your what now?” he asked, looking thoroughly confused.

“Doppelganger,” Severus piped in, “It’s rumored that each and every one of us has a counterpart—that a person who looks exactly like we do exists somewhere in the world. Perhaps, to the woman in question, Charlotte here is her doppelganger.” He gestured toward Hermione, who gazed up at him in relief, since his explanation seemed to satisfy the boy, or at least led him to blather on about something else. It seemed he had no concept of personal space, leaning incredibly close to Hermione until she could smell his acrid breath when he addressed her and repeatedly attempting to square his knees so they touched hers.

Finally, the boy seemed to notice the sleeping stranger who occupied his same bench. “Do you two know this broad?” They shook their heads in unison. “Hm,” the boy concluded with a shrug, seemingly unfazed by her presence.

“Hey,” the boy said quietly, attempting to get Hermione’s attention, to the exclusion of Severus. “Hey, love, since you’re not with him.” He stood up half-way to lean across the aisle and grasp her wrist, prying her hand open to place a folded bit of paper on her palm. She gaped at him, astounded by his hubris and his horrible manners. In return, he gave her a sleazy wink, seemingly misinterpreting her open-mouthed expression for one of desire.

Hermione looked up at Severus, who gritted his teeth as he forcibly suppressed the urge to string the boy up by his ankle. When the lad’s stop finally came, they jointly breathed a sigh of relief, although he couldn’t resist making another lascivious wink at Hermione before he staggered onto the platform. She made a gagging gesture at the sight.

After a quick glance back and forth, Severus grasped her hand to stroke with his fingers in a small gesture of comfort, the only kind he could display towards her under the circumstances. “Do you think he recognized me?” she whispered, with her hand over her mouth to deter anyone from eavesdropping.

“No,” he reassured her, adopting his usual dead-pan tone as he added, “I am certain that brute keeps himself too busy with his nose pressed to the centerfold to recognize a woman by her face.”

Hermione giggled at his comment, even though he’d said it with a straight face—that somehow made the barb even funnier to her. “Can I rest my head on your shoulder? I hardly slept last night.”

“If you’re able to sleep, then by all means, such a benign gesture shouldn’t make anyone look twice.” She nodded with a yawn before leaning against him, placing her head on his shoulder. Severus closed his eyes as he breathed in the lovely scent of her hair for comfort.

At the following stop, the woman across for them shot awake, frantically looking all around her until she seemed to gather her bearings; noticing it was her stop, she managed a sharp “Oh, dear,” before she hurriedly shuffled off, leaving only the cretin with the dead eyes and the empty fixed-forward stare; unless it escaped his notice, the man hadn’t blinked a single time since he and Hermione boarded the tube, but while the man had addled Hermione, Severus ascertained that the man only appeared intimidating.

Finally, the train ground to a halt at their stop, and he gently shook her shoulder to rouse her, grateful that this branch of their journey had gone as planned, without incident. When the de-boarded the train, the station tunnel alone provided him with ample evidence of the fact that they weren’t in Cokeworth anymore. He noted that the waxy floor tiles were actually grey in color instead of gray from pollution and general neglect. The well-lit station seemed clean, with colored tiles interspersed with the white ones scaling the walls to form simple designs; posters matching the curvature of the tunnel also brightened up the place. Instead of wet metal, the station smelled almost clinical, like a doctor’s waiting room.

Now that they’d reached her territory, he let her lead the way. They exited the brick station and proceeded down the street. In the village of Hampstead, terraced housing took on an entirely new façade—remnants of the regency period, these grand terraces were clad in pristine white stone, with wrought-iron balconies and window grills or flower boxes overflowing with greenery.

The individual housing blocks had been built in a crescent shape, some with flowing fountains in the center or copper statues growing green with rain and age. While Cokeworth’s terraces originally served as housing for factory workers and their families, it seemed clear to him that only the elitist of the elite occupied these Hampstead units. As they proceeded down another cobbled street, lined with quaint shops and studios, he saw one house that had been entirely overtaken by ivy.

When they reached the park, he appreciated the taste of clean air, free of soot and dust. Hermione pointed to another building, which resembled a castle in miniature. “That’s where I went to grammar school. St. Margaret’s School for Girls. My teachers didn’t quite know how to handle me; on the one hand, I was prodigiously smart and a model student.”

“With an unparalleled sense of modesty,” he teased.

“On the other hand, I was capable of things they couldn’t explain, and in a historically religious institution, that sort of thing is usually frowned upon. There are always harsh, hushed words bandied about—possessed, otherworldly, demonic, evil, even. Needless to say, I had a difficult time. Receiving my Hogwart’s letter brought me such relief; they had me convinced I had evil inside of me.”

“Against my mother’s wishes, my father would occasionally brave a hangover and drag me to Sunday morning mass to try to cure me, to rid me off my magic or to convince me to suppress it willingly in favor of religion. It made me think similarly—that my wizardry and the health of my soul cannot coexist. I still struggle with such notions at times.”

“Are we broken?” she asked suddenly, playing a balancing game on log that had fallen across their makeshift path. He considered her question, running his fingers through the knee-high grass on his side. “Yes, I am afraid so, although perhaps we can scrape up the fragments and mend them to create some semblance of a single healthy individual.”

Ornate art nouveau lampposts glowed all along the sidewalk, casting light on a few smaller ponds, thick with reeds and clusters of lily-pads. He appreciated the way the residents of the Heath had achieved a nearly-impossible balance between nature and human habitation. The residents of Cokeworth had quickly paved away the natural resources, leaving only metal and rust and concrete and caustic rivers slimy with oil. The hardscrabble life of a mill-worker and his family left no time to nurture nature, with one’s own survival the only concern at the forefront of an overworked mind. The wealthy in riches are also wealthy in resources and time, he reminded himself.

From his place on the sidewalk, Severus marveled at the expansive lawns of lush grass that stretched to distant country homes, echoes of the Edwardian-era, where a few mock-Tudor mansions, with their half-timbered fronts stood next to their all-brick neighbors.  They passed posh ponds, where willow trees bowed to touch the water with the leaf-tips of their limbs; the sky, all aglow with stars, reflected in the still water, creating celestial tide pools. The throaty song of frogs and the occasional dog barking in the distance were the only sounds they heard on that otherwise quiet night.

They followed winding paths through plush parks, dotted with benches that boasted vista views of the waterfront. As they proceeded through the park, he couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that they were being followed; the years he’d invested in subterfuge had trained his already keen senses to a sharp point, and the unmistakable feeling of someone’s eyes upon him had his instincts on high-alert, the hair on his neck prickling. He wanted to refrain from alarming Hermione, so he kept his observations to himself. Perhaps, a curious muggle observed them from afar, but as he visually probed the darkness around them, there wasn’t a single soul to be seen.

If his instincts proved correct, he had no desire to encounter the mystery person—whether they be friend or foe, he felt unprepared for either one. He placed a protective hand on the small of her back. “You’re thinking about something,” she mused aloud.

“I am always thinking about something,” he replied, scanning his surroundings for monsters masquerading as dark shapes in the night.

“When you’re thinking, you forget to talk,” she pointed out, an assertion he couldn’t deny. She seemed to miss the way he held his wand in a vise-grip. The gravitas of executing their clandestine plan in the dead of night weighed heavily upon him, while Hermione seemed unencumbered by it, seemingly enjoying their night-time stroll. Their uneventful journey thus far had instilled in her a false sense of security.

Only years spent in the company of the darkest wizards had taught him that his security was also their perfect window of attack—a potentially fatal rookie mistake. Searching for unknown silhouettes stole his sole focus, leading him to stumble over a rock and nearly topple over. “Are you alright?” she asked, following the path of his eyes. She saw nothing and no one. Perhaps, his own extensive exposure to the Cruciatus Curse had brought on the latent paranoia he’d previously warned Hermione about.

They crossed the viaduct bridge and crested many of the Heath’s rolling hills, cutting through lawns and meadows and copses of trees pulsing with fireflies, until they reached Hermione’s house, a mansion in its own right, with ivy scaling its brick façade. “This is it.”


	17. Nothing Gold Can Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _A/N:_** _I included a little nod to the fact that the Harry Potter series takes place during the 1990s, as many often forget (myself included, until I started work on this story). Additionally, if I spend too much time inside the character's heads as opposed to driving the plot forward, feel free to mention it; I'm fascinated by other's thought processes, so it's a bit self-indulgent for me, but I'd hate for it to translate as boring to you, readers. Lastly, I see that a great many people are reading, and I would love to hear from you! Reviews make me immeasurably happy (thanks, as always, to my handful of dedicated reviewers and to guests who also leave comments)._

**XVII. Nothing Gold Can Stay**

_By: Calliope Confetti_

“This is it,” she whispered, holding her finger to her lips to shush him as she withdrew her wand to check for any traps.

It seemed that although Yaxley had once located the house, no one had darkened its doorstep since. They ducked under a garden pergola to hide, until she gestured for Severus to follow her through the gate at the back of the house and through the rear entrance, wands at the ready. They took precautions, once again performing the Fidelius Charm, although this time, Severus consented to being secret-keeper for Hermione.

They reassured themselves that they were finally safe in their new haven, breathing a collective sigh of relief. “So, do I get the grand tour?” Severus asked.

“Of course, only the best for my gentleman callers,” she teased, leading him to roll his eyes as she took him by the hand. When he entered the kitchen of Hermione’s house, he felt a sudden shame towards his lower-class upbringing, a strange feeling that he didn’t quite understand. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t silence a nagging voice, a voice that reminded him of his own meager means and the fact that he could never provide her with the type of lifestyle or the luxuries to which she’d grown accustomed; another voice fought back, insisting that, while she grew up in an affluent family, she knew his financial circumstances and would never expect him to match the wealth afforded by her parents’ lucrative careers.

Recessed lighting shined on crystal counter-tops sitting atop pristine white cabinetry and spotless stainless steel appliances. The Granger matriarch had tastefully, if minimalistically, decorated the place. The sitting room and the rooms adjacent had all been painted various hues of blue. The built-in bookshelves in the sitting room contained a sizable collection, full of classics spanning the vast canon of literature and an equally impressive span of non-fiction resources; _although, these shelves contain too few books to represent Hermione’s full collection,_ he thought, in the same way she’d assessed his potion’s cabinet.

She led him through the first floor to show him what had been her parent’s bedroom, as well as the master bath and a guest room. He assumed the Grangers’ were great hosts, given the fact that they’d furnished and decorated the guest room with as much care as the rest. As Hermione pointed out various objects of interest, he heard her stomach interrupt her with an angry wildcat growl, which led him to remember his own stomach, muted and aching with hunger. “I don't suppose there's any food here?” he asked the question on both their minds.

“God, I sure hope so,” she replied with uncertainty. They rushed back to the kitchen, nearly crashing into each other, until they stood in front of the refrigerator, contemplating the mystery of its contents. Severus almost didn’t want to open its doors—if his hopes would only be dashed, he’d like to stand there a bit longer, laboring under the illusion of it bearing sustenance. At the same moment, they both lunged for the doors, each of them grasping a handle before standing back as they opened them. The interior lights shined down on the food like crepuscular rays, with almost religious significance.

What any well-fed person would balk at and consider unworthy, they viewed as a surfeit. They had a seat at the dining table in the breakfast nook around a dusty cornucopia centerpiece and enjoyed their meal, a strange assortment under any other circumstances—a jar of artichokes previously unopened, freezer-burnt fare, various items eaten straight from the cans that contained them, tea sans cream, and even a desert consisting of stale crackers spread with jam. Severus found it twistedly amusing how intense hunger rendered any meal gourmet to the starving person.

Hermione insisted they indulge in a bottle of wine to celebrate a successful journey, and with physical tiredness weighing him down, he acquiesced without a word. She knelt next to a wine fridge, which appeared fully-stocked from where Severus sat—and in his mind, he sniped, _leave it to the wealthy to have a surplus of alcohol and little to no food_. She rifled through the bottles, withdrawing various wines to examine their labels, before she finally settled on a Malbec. Ever the hostess, she arranged two glasses on a mirrored copper tray and motioned for him to follow her into the sitting room, where he took a seat on the divan. She followed suit, sitting beside him and handing him his glass. They performed their classic wordless toast and drank to it, which seemed just as well, words likely couldn’t capture all they’d been through.

When Severus gasped after downing his glass in three gulps, Hermione feigned offense. “Hey, now that’s a decent Malbec. Savor it.”

“Please excuse me if I don’t feel like channeling my inner sommelier tonight,” he drawled with a smirk.

* * *

 

After what sufficed for supper, she led him upstairs, down a hallway, and then entered the last door on the right, before stepping aside to allow him into the room. When Severus entered Hermione's room, he felt a deep sense of shame that left him swallowing against the jagged lump rising in his throat. It felt like he’d taken a step back in time, to her first year. He knew she hadn't spent much time there since she’d received her letter to Hogwarts, so it made sense, but still, he fidgeted in discomfort as he looked around, his curiosity trumping his shame. "Oasis?" he asked as he studied a poster on her wall of two brooding young lads with moppish hair.

"They’re like The Beatles," Hermione answered distractedly, searching for something in her desk. Thankfully, he also noticed an album cover of the “Fab Four” on the wall.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked, noticing him staring blankly at the series of school photos hung upon the wall, remembering his were taken in black and white.

"Hm? Oh, yes. Fine," he murmured, looking away from the bright-faced little girl with large teeth.

"You don't seem fine," she prodded.

"You're so young, Hermione. Sometimes I forget how young you are," he managed, growing paper-pale, crimson creeping into his cheeks.

"Wizards can live substantially longer lives than muggles," Hermione reminded him, "So 19 years is just a drop in the bucket really, inconsequential." With them still standing in the time-capsule of her youth, he found little comfort in her words. "I'm of age, Severus,” she added pointedly.

"Yes, I know. Trust me, you've proven that," he stressed, remembering the night before with a flutter in his abdomen as he grasped her hand. In his life, she seemed like a strange yet lovely anachronism, like gladiators wearing wrist watches. As she dug through the drawers of her desk, he studied a collage she’d assembled and hung next to her twin bed, full of postcards from all over Europe, art prints and playbills and pamphlets from classical concerts with clipped articles from the Daily Prophet, including the article he’d participated in when he became headmaster. Bookshelves scaled the remaining walls, without a free space to be seen; he’d expected nothing less.

* * *

 

“Is there a guest bedroom on this floor?” he asked finally, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Yes.” She walked across the hall to the adjacent bedroom with Severus in her wake, with him growing flustered watching the feminine swing of her hips in that shapely skirt. He followed her in and shut the door behind him, before advancing on her and gripping her shoulders as he claimed her lips in a much awaited kiss.

Under the pretense they’d put in place to deflect scrutiny, he had quietly restrained himself, refraining from touching her in any way that could be misconstrued to hold any deeper meaning. After sequestering themselves for days upon days at Spinner’s End, where nothing was off-limits, he had to actively set his mind to the task—even in so short a time, he had repeatedly reiterated one fact to himself, the unspoken and unbelievable fact that it was okay to touch her, it was allowed, _he_ was allowed.

For nearly twenty years, he been deprived of affectionate human touch (sometimes depriving himself of the same) and the warmth that accompanied it; under the Dark Lord’s reign, he eschewed even platonic relationships to prevent anyone from coming to harm or from being used as leverage, although he’d never experienced even a spark of interest in anyone over that span of years—that was until Hermione entered stage left, shattered his defenses and drew him into her before he even knew what had hit him; in fact, he was still reeling from the force. Over the course of mere days, under the influence of her and her affections, she ensured that at that point forward, he could never live without either. Only intimately experiencing Hermione had also given him the power to make an honest assessment of the extent of his own damage. What he’d written off as a total loss suddenly seemed mendable, perhaps even redeemable.

At Spinner’s End, he’d wished that they could’ve remained there for the rest of their lives and kept their beloved routine of long talks that ended in languid couplings that lapsed into him falling asleep with the feminine curves of her body flush against his more masculine contours, and they would lie like that until his body responded and he woke her for more before the cycle delightfully repeated itself. However, even as a relationship novice, he knew that wasn’t an accurate representation of life, it had been almost more reminiscent of a long dream or a fugue state—although, the sheer realness of it lingered in his mind whenever he so vividly remembered holding her writhing form as he eagerly gripped her flesh.

“I’ve wanted to do that since that dunderhead accosted you on the train,” he admitted, withdrawing his wand to undo all the modifications he’d made previously until the Hermione he recognized stood before him once again. “That’s better,” he concluded, winding his fingers through her familiar curls before tilting his head until he slanted his mouth over hers in a kiss that nearly had her knees buckling beneath her. Seeing as Hermione’s unyielding stand-in wand produced slightly shoddy spells, his disguise had already begun to fade.

“Severus,” she laughed, protesting, “I’m all sweaty from the train.”

“Doesn't bother me...” he whispered through clenched teeth between insistent kisses. When the need to breathe forced their lips apart, his hands dropped from her hair to encircle her waist, before they quickly migrated lower to grip her arse in that damned distracting skirt. Another long-awaited kiss left her face and lips flushed a deep red. The latent excitement coursed through him when he realized that everything had gone according to plan—they had succeeded—followed by a breathless rush of exhilaration when he realized the fact that, in his mind, he’d cheated death yet again, and consequently, he’d never felt more alive. When he turned to Hermione, that excitement quickly turned amorous.

Although he longed for the swiftness and efficacy afforded by magic, he began removing her clothing the old-fashioned way. She held her hair up and away from the teeth of the zipper on her blouse as he slowly pulled the closure down the length of her back before pulling the garment over head and off to land forgotten on the floor. In one fluid motion, she gripped the collar of his blazer and jerked it down to bring him to her level for a quick kiss, before ripping it down off his shoulders in the same manner. She bit her lower lip with a look of feigned innocence after, a look that sent a rush of libidinous thoughts to his brain, not a single one appropriate to voice in polite company.

A little light-headed, he hadn’t noticed her unfurling the scarf from his neck. With one tug of her hands she’d un-tucked his shirt, maintaining her look of innocence. He threw off the turtleneck and leaned into her to stare appraisingly at the curve of her breasts spilling into a lacy black bra, an obstacle to his eyesight he simply couldn’t tolerate. Upon seeing the bandages around his neck, she experienced a sobering moment of gravitas, remembering the complication that smoked them out of their former haven. She flushed beneath his gaze and lightly kissed him over-top of the bandages, assuring herself that they’d soon have the wound examined by one of her parent’s friends in the medical community.

When his hands searched for the zipper closure on her skirt, she batted them away and brought the focus back to him as she worked to undo the button-fly on his trousers with a coquettish smile and averted eyes, before pulling them over his narrow hips and off completely—in her now narrowed eyes, a challenge. She ran her fingers over the length of his desire, relishing in watching his eyes roll back and hearing the quiet groan escape his lips. With him fully undressed, she had the advantage, but he didn’t dare let her hold it for long.

He caught her off guard when he managed to pin her to the wall again, this time with her back flat against his chest. Now, he finally had his chance to divest her of that damned skirt, his hands moving to her waist to unzip it until it fell to the floor in a ring of fabric at her feet. “There’s only so much a man can take,” he commented silkily, and she marveled at how his sonorous voice lent itself to sultriness as effectively as it did to insult. He threw one arm across her breasts, while he wrapped the other around her rib-cage in order to gauge each panting breath. 

The control he’d exercised thus far had left her in a state of constant anticipation. She felt a quiver of arousal in her abdomen when he slid his hand down her stomach and dipped his fingers just below the waistband of her knickers, where he abruptly stopped, a move that made her arch against him, her head lolling loose.

He moved her hair over to one side and kissed the nape of her neck, making the downy hairs their stand at attention. The sound of the breath catching in her throat led him to slip his hand just a little lower. She squirmed against him in attempt to urge his fingers even lower, but he denied her. Aware of the hot length of his erection pressing against her back, she felt shiver of excitement, knowing he wasn’t as composed as he let on. Finally, when he could no longer stand it, he dipped his fingers just low enough to part her slickness, teasing a low moan from her as he bit back his own response. When he slid his fingers into her tight passage, his mouth went dry and his flesh pulsed with rigor upon discovering just how aroused he’d made her. Swallowing thickly, he drawled, “Ah, Miss Granger, it seems that I have an effect on you.”

“So it would seem,” she replied, her voice strained as she arched her back as fully as her restricted range of motion would allow. Sliding his fingers up and down had the desired effect when she threw her arms up, pressing her hands to the wall with little noises of pleasure. “Please,” she panted, “Please, Severus, no more control.” The desperate knife-edge to her voice when she implored him to surrender encouraged him to acquiesce.

“Bed,” he whispered, gripping her hips as he drew her toward the bed until he had her on her back, at his mercy once again. The feeling of his tongue encircling her nipple soon earned him a sibilant, “Sss-severuss,” from Hermione’s lip as she pressed her palms against his head, her fingers curling when he began suckling on it gently. He kissed the supple skin of her stomach before lowering his head between her thighs; just the scent of her desire sent a dizzying deluge of blood downward. The sweet taste of her, her flesh slick against his tongue, had his body begging him to cut to it, to lift her hips and bury himself inside her. It seemed Hermione was of similar mind, her fingers buried in his hair as she tried to get his attention. “Severus,” she panted, “I want to feel you inside of me.” Although he found her candor surprising, he found hearing her vocalize such needs unbelievably arousing. Then, another word passed those moist and parted lips with such urgency it aroused the same urgency in him, “ _Now._ ”

With a vested interest, she watched his shoulders bow and shake with those first thrusts—the fact that she and her body gave him such pleasure made her proud, and a strange sense of power came over her, which she embraced when she gripped his hair and whispered, “Come here,” bringing him down to kiss him. She realized that this time, they weren’t simply succumbing to some carnal urge; with the raw emotion she felt and the strength of sensation, she knew they were making love. Whereas he’d been supporting himself with straight arms on either side of her, he dropped onto his elbows, the weight of his body pressed heavy upon her—with the synchronicity flowing between them, he had to experience it skin-on-skin, teasing her with the friction of their bodies, so close as they copulated in the dark. She threw her head back with a whispered whimper of his name that hit him with a visceral quake of arousal in his core as he pressed a kiss to her delicate throat.

Without the purchase afforded by his arms, he could only move his hips with long, slow strokes up to the hilt. She gripped his backside as he stroked delicious places inside of her until she could no longer form a coherent sentence. She made a sound, half-moan, half-gasp, which had his hips moving in earnest; she felt herself letting go, her lips brushing his ear with quiet clips of exhortation on her panting breaths. So close to finishing, he wanted to hear her to say it to push him over the edge, and the words spilled from that secret part of him where he kept his vulnerability, from whence few words had ever come. “Tell me, tell me, tell me…” he implored, whispery and breathless. Hearing those words with the husky begging strain in his voice sent a shuddering thrill through her that lingered in her mind long after the moment ended.

“I love you, Severus. I love you. Ah, I love you.” She could feel his body shudder in anticipation as he chanted it back to her, until he made a strangled growl, moving with an urge beyond the higher mind. Those final moments left her riding out their completion, moaning the words he longed to hear against his ear over and over again. Finally, when they lay spent and shaking, they were each able to catch their breath and calm down a little. Severus lingered inside of her, not wishing for it to end, occasionally lifting his head to kiss her.

“Where did that come from?” she asked appreciatively, running her hands up and down his back.

“Every time could be the last. I intend to make it count,” he quietly replied.

“Mission accomplished and then some,” she responded in quiet awe. He smiled where she couldn’t see it; although she’d probably assumed it was a dark joke, the thought weighed heavy on his mind. After a time, he withdrew from her and moved to lie behind her, where he held her long after she’d fallen asleep. He found it agonizing—waiting for the other curse to come and curtail his hard-won happiness. In his life, nothing gold could stay; it was only a matter of time for him, and the sands were falling fast. There were circumstances far beyond either of their control, ones Hermione all but refused to acknowledge, that could forever wrench them apart. After scaring her earlier with all his predicted scenarios, the last thing he wanted was to force her to face things she wasn’t ready for—but how else could he prepare her?

If the Wizengamot ruled that he should be sent to Azkaban, no magic—even the strange magic of love—could change the reality of that ruling. If her friends and fellows reacted the way he predicted, they’d make certain that she’d never come within a mile of his wretched clutches ever again, in spite of her own wishes and her protestations. One catastrophic outcome terrified him far more than the others—to a Death Eater out for revenge, she’d look like the perfect prey. If they wanted to hurt him, their quickest recourse would be by hurting her, because her lifeblood pumped through his veins too, and when she hurt, he bled—a thought that plagued him constantly.

With two circumstances combined, he could be dementor-fodder rotting away in Azkaban, unable to offer her any protection, a thought that filled him with intense dread. Under any other combination of circumstances, he’d unleash all his magic and all the physical force he possessed if they even took an untoward step in her direction. He knew she was a formidable witch who matched him nearly strength for strength, although he possessed the wisdom only time affords, and he knew he should trust that she could take care of herself; it was not some sort of twisted chivalry—but what he knew on an intellectual level was wiped out by the blind rage at the mere thought of her being captured by a Death Eater, leaving him incapable of rational thought.

* * *

 

No matter how desperately he tried to dam his stream-of-consciousness, the thoughts surfaced rapid-fire to the main stage of his mind to further trouble him and prevent sweet sleep from calling curtains on his consciousness, unable to quiet the thoughts of the trials to come. Theoretically, he presumed any relationship, no matter how unstable, could prosper under perfectly controlled conditions, like being sequestered together in a safe haven invisible to all but them—placed in an Eden-esque terrarium, suspended in a globe of glass, its barrier impenetrable to the reaches of the wider world and its testing temptations and interloping influence.

The future had thrown down the gauntlet, but could any love withstand the trials to which fate had resigned them and survive with the integrity of their bond intact? Were they blinded to the-fast approaching impasse in their path? Some things thrived in adversity, his mind reasoned. A particularly tenacious flower can grow through the smallest crack in the concrete. A fire feeds off its own ashes. Diamonds only form under immense pressure. They’d already faced so many complications and come out stronger and better for it, perhaps preparing them for the trials to come. With love came a strange sense of faith, and he decided to take that mental leap and trust in the idea of their bond’s ability to weather the storm, at least for now.

Unable to sleep, Severus left the bed and a sleeping Hermione and wandered to the sitting room, where he took a seat on the plaid divan and examined the photos of her parents lined across the piano; she’d told him that she enchanted them to reappear when her parents weren’t present in the home, so she could still fondly look upon them, an aside which had saddened him. His thoughts on the Obliviate spell eventually segued into thoughts on memory itself. _Memory is a strange beast_ , he mused.

The attraction that sparked that day in the forest had kept him in thought for the duration of the return journey, and when his head finally hit the pillow that night, memories of her consumed his mind. Memories he hadn’t ruminated on in years flashed to the forefront, imbued with new meaning and reinvigorated with purpose. Memories he once could view objectively had filled him with doubt when he recalled them again through the distorting lens of his newfound fixation. The knowledge that he loved her didn’t seem new to him when he realized it; it seemed like it had always been so, like he’d known it from the genesis of his sentience. Before, in the midst of a barrage of more pressing concerns, he wondered if it had been a flight of fancy deeply wanted yet un-entertained, eventually banished to the depths of his consciousness to be suffocated under strain until their forest encounter.

The memories came to him with a newfound clarity that he found suspicious—as the mind so often bends to our unconscious will. A memory of the Yule Ball resurfaced; in it, Hermione descended the staircase in slow motion, her arm linked to Viktor’s, although his mind had cropped him from the shot; even before they became involved, he’d found her transformation striking (although then and now, he preferred her dressed-down), but now, when she cast a flirty look her one-time suitor’s way, it seemed as if that look had been meant only for Severus, and he realized the edit occurred because he wished she were looking at him. Had he loved her since that day?

Pinpointing the moment his affection for her morphed into something deeper, stronger—love—proved nary impossible—the moment must’ve occurred in the subconscious, a split-second metamorphosis of the heart, a fraction of a moment so evanescent it rendered recalling it at all an exercise in futility. Another memory projected itself on his mind; it took him a few seconds to place it, as he watched from third-person, much like if he’d placed it in the pensieve—a girl sank into her chair as if she hoped it would absorb her as he paced the room, clutching a copy of the Daily Prophet while reading an article aloud, to a class divided in their reactions—half glaring at him, half of them laughing uncontrollably. In the memory, the audio seemed warped until the sound of his voice suddenly boomed, restoring clarity.

The article he’d been reading aloud to mixed fanfare, the one he’d mentioned the previous night, had centered on Hermione’s supposed indiscretions, juggling the hearts of famous boys. Originally, he’d been so caught up in humiliating Potter, he hadn’t noticed Hermione’s roundabout humiliation; in recall, something about the article bothered him, something that had nothing to do with Potter—the assertions that gossip hag had made in the article had hit a raw nerve, but why? The potential veracity of the article had riled and incensed him; had he masked his true motives so well that he’d managed to conceal them even from himself?

Had his theoretical budding desire for Hermione been dealt a fatal blow when he learned that she was interested in superior suitors? Had he unknowingly punished her, not for being in possession of forbidden materials, but for daring to choose to be interested in others when neither of them had any idea he harbored any interest in her in the first place? Had he suppressed his rationality in favor of falling victim to emotions totally foreign to him? Had he inadvertently followed that oft-spouted bit of horrible advice—had he made a mental return to the schoolyard when he teased and tortured the girl he fancied? Perhaps.

All the potential implications and complications made him feel like he was drowning with no one to rescue him. All his former encounters with her that he’d filed away as less than meaningless were suddenly meaningful and relevant to his current predicament. He wondered if he’d sensed it in her presence, clips of the future, as seers do; had he simply refused to interpret the signs, had he simply ignored or missed them entirely in his state of constant vigilance? Or was he indulging in the farce that is prophesy after the event, as seers are also wont to do? Memories of her sitting in rapt attention as he stood at the lectern had him rethinking her seemingly innocent eye contact—back then, did he miss a knowing gleam of the future in her eye due, in part, to his larger effort to ignore her?

When they’d become reacquainted, his mind had truncated time and condensed memory until they occupied the very same second of the present, lending itself to easy confusion. Another memory surfaced to vex him more than the rest combined. In it, he dizzily came to, only to find himself in a pile of rubble on the floor of the Shrieking Shack with blood trickling from his skull; slow to form, his memories had occurred to him in pieces—his wand pressing a divot into Sirius’s throat, the trio’s protestations, Lupin’s unconvincing explanation, someone raising a wand, and then nothing, fade to black. The howl of a wolf pierced the quiet, and before his conscious thoughts even had time to catch up, his instincts had him grappling for his wand until his hand closed around it and he bolted into the night.

When he’d come upon the trio cowering and huddling together, their fearful stance had failed to register; with admonishments for Potter chambered on his tongue, he gripped him by the collar, but before a single insult passed his lips, he noticing a long shadow stretching behind the three, and he looked up to see Lupin in werewolf form, looming over them with ferocious snaps of his fang-lined jaws. In a split second, he whirled around and threw himself between the werewolf and the children without even a second thought. Lupin raised a paw and slashed it across Severus’s chest, bowling him over so that he landed halfway on Hermione. He scrambled to his feet and helped her up before assisting the others.

When Sirius had entered the fray in animagus form, Severus took another step back, urging them to do the same. Soon, Sirius’s jaws were clasped around Lupin’s throat, with just enough force for him to desist from harming himself and the rest of them. Lupin managed to get ahold of Sirius and hurl him over the embankment before pursuing him into the night with a baleful howl. Potter broke away from the group in pursuit of his godfather, and while Severus had shouted for him to come back, he stayed with the other two. His hands grasped Hermione’s shoulders, and he felt her tense in preparation to lunge out of his grasp; when she did, he managed to wrestle his arms around her to keep her from retreating.

In the memory, his own actions perplexed him—the necessity in protecting Potter at all costs had been deeply ingrained, beaten into him by Dumbledore with the bluntest of instruments, but instead of following to apprehend him in his pursuit of the two stupid curs, he held his position, perhaps anticipating that she would likely make a break for it. Instead of keeping Potter safe, he made certain that Hermione remained safely with him, out of harm’s way. Had he experienced a sudden surge of long-buried emotion when he sprang into action in attempt to hold her back? The volatility of the altercation and the sense of impending danger combined so that the clear and present danger held his sole focus; the lack of a moment to spare left zero time for emotion and analytics, only for instinct.

When he’d realized that he loved her, he also realized he couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t, sending him into a mild intellectual crisis—had his consciousness rid of reality to make room for love? He hoped it wasn’t so—his self-identity had been crafted around a framework of unfaltering rationality. Eventually, he was able to offer himself some reassurance—love had left his rationality intact; the two had so little in common, they rarely traveled in the same circles. After falling down that rabbit hole of contemplation, it took some time before he reached the surface and was able to crawl out; all those questions and insights culminated in the anticlimactic realization that while he found it interesting, it mattered naught. Regardless of the length of time, all that truly mattered now was the fact that he loved her, and that was that.

* * *

 

The chirping sound of an Audubon clock startled him out of his reverie, unused to the strange night sounds in her home—a coo coo clock, out of time with the first, chimed a moment later. He yawned and began to head in the direction of the bedroom, before he realized that he’d inadvertently created the perfect opportunity to execute stage one of a plan he’d been crafting in secret for a few days’ time. Striving not to wake her, he gripped the handle of the door to the back patio, slowly attempting to ease it open without it making a sound, before aiming his wand through to the outside and whispering, “Expecto Patronum.” When he dispatched his Patronus to deliver the message, he’d been surprised to find his once corporeal Patronus gone, in its place an amorphous, swirling cloud of wispy silver—something within fought to form, although he could not yet tell which creature. And while he disliked the implication that his abilities in that area of magic had suffered, he felt a burden lifted when the spell no longer confronted him with the dolorous doe of his past.

When he re-entered the room to join her in bed, he stopped in his tracks just past the threshold. The moonlight spilling into the room, rendering her flesh alabaster, left her supine body looking as if an artist had in mind Venus herself when he carved her from a pristine pillar of white stone. The slight twist of her torso allowed him only a peek of the sublime dip of her hips as she supported herself on one hip and an elbow, the fingers of that hand buried in her hair, partly awake but oblivious to his return. Severus saw her spread across the bed like a beautiful echo of an Odalisque, laid out before him in a revelation, struck by the vision of where and who he wanted to be with until death. Re-joining her under the covers, she languidly tilted her head up to look at him, and in her sleepy voice asked, “Where’d you go?”

“Just to fetch a drink of water,” he replied, before caressing her cheek and kissing her goodnight. “You’re lovely, do you know that?” he drawled, his eyes warm and full of affection. With her eyes half closed and oblivious to how much she and her body affected him, she smiled, and wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling against his chest before rolling on her side to return to sleep, and as he curled against her back and draped one arm over her side, he wondered whether she’d even remember their interaction in the morning.

* * *

 

That morning, Hermione entered the kitchen, arms laden with the back issues of the Daily Prophet that had accumulated on her doorstep. With owls immune to the sanctions of the Fidelius Charm, the deliveries would continue daily, dropped in flight from above, landing on the flagstones that created a meandering path through the garden. Severus reached into the pile of papers to withdraw one, almost like drawing straws, but Hermione stopped him, “We’re going to refrain from reading them until you see Dr. Baker. We can’t be getting discouraged while that bite still needs taken care of.”

“I remain unconvinced of the effectiveness of such a measure,” he replied flatly. She watched his eyes scan the bits of pictures and print he could discern through the jumble of news, so she wrapped an arm around him and covered his eyes with her other hand. “Stop that,” she scolded as he sipped his tea, pretending not to notice the hand blocking his vision.

* * *

 

After they’d properly disguised and dressed themselves as Sidney and Charlotte once more, they exited the house and Hermione led the way to the private medical practice a few blocks away. They approached a square building with bands of bricks alternating with panes of black windows, and Hermione inclined her head towards it, “It’s this building.” Severus’s anxiety soared and fibrillated his nerves at the idea of putting her plan into action. With the death of the Dark Lord, he leaned towards believing the legitimacy of her claim that the darkness dies with the Horcrux, although he refrained from telling her to deny her the satisfaction, since he’d originally balked at her assertion—but there still existed a chance that the dark nature of the wound remained, leaving muggle doctor’s flummoxed, alarmingly declaring him a medical anomaly worthy of press and further study. She gripped his sleeve and pulled him into a small grove of trees bordering the practice and urged him to undo her disguise, so the doctor would recognize her.

Hermione approached the secretary at the front desk and informed her of her desire to speak privately with Dr. Basil Baker, and after a surprisingly short wait, a nurse declared that the doctor would see them now and led them to a private room. The tall, well-built Englishman entered the room, exchanging congenial greetings with Hermione before he turned his expressive face and outstretched hand toward Severus, “Pleasure to meet you, mate, any friend of Hermione here is a friend of mine. I’m Basil Baker.”

Hermione cleared her throat before she launched into her fabricated explanation, “Actually, this is my uncle, Sidney. He and my parents don’t get on; they had a falling out, but he remained in my life, and now that I’m an adult, it’s my decision who I choose to associate with, besides, mum and dad are on an extended holiday in Melbourne, having a grand time. This needn’t be any of their concern.”

Her ability to craft skilled lies on the spot impressed and alarmed Severus in equal measure. “Yes, and I’m afraid that, at the moment, my circumstances have left me in a bad place, where I can’t afford to see another physician,” he added, and her heart swelled with empathy—usually, he valued his pride above all else and refused to debase himself, even fictionally.

“Just to prepare you, Dr. Baker, it’s a rather gruesome injury,” Hermione warned.

“Let’s have a look then,” he straightened his brightly patterned tie before sitting down, rolling his chair across the room to sit in front of Severus; judging by his cheery tone, Hermione surmised that he didn’t believe the injury was as grisly as she described. Before he’d even fully removed the bandages, the doctor’s face paled with a look of horror, and she heard him mutter “Oh, Mary mother of God” under his breath. “Do you have any idea of the cause or how this injury was inflicted?” he asked, stunned.

Hermione coughed against the panic clogging her throat before she choked out the only explanation she’d been able to think of, “Brown recluse bite. Untreated for too long. Necrosis.”

When she studied his expression, his eyebrows raised far above the thick black frames of his glasses, she sighed in relief when she realized that he’d accepted her explanation.

“A right nasty bite, sir. I’ve found a few of the little bastards in my basement. After seeing this though, I’m far more inclined to call an exterminator,” he chuckled, attempting to add some levity. Hermione laughed along awkwardly, while Severus could only manage a twitch of a smile.

“You’ll need to clean the wound twice a day, as well as undergo a few weeks of intravenous antibiotics.”

“Weeks?” Severus asked in shock.

“Yes, if you’re lucky. With the severity of the infection, you may require a month of the treatment. Don’t worry yourself—we have home health people for that. They’ll teach you how to do it. To be safe, I’m going to start the treatment today.

When a nurse returned in the doctor’s place to administer the treatment, Hermione winced and tensed when she watched the butterfly needle pierce the crook his arm, cringing as if she were the one being stabbed; he’d endured far worse that a large needle over his life, with scars to prove it.

He eyed her with amusement. “Does this bother you?” he drawled.

“Obviously,” she answered sharply, growing pale at the sight of his blood winding up through the tubing. He felt and tasted the saline drip, the salient substance irritating his throat. When the nurse left them alone in the small room, he quoted Dr. Baker, hissing, _“‘Home health people?’ How on earth are we going to manage that?!”_

“I don’t know!” she whined, covering her head with her arms in a futile attempt to disappear. “We _will_ find a way. We can’t let that get us down, because, on the plus side, Dr. Baker noticed nothing untoward about your injury. That’s great news.” Severus appeared unconvinced, but he quietly granted her that to keep from causing her even more frustration.

As they exited the examination room, they passed Doctor Baker on their way down the hall, and he stopped to say goodbye to Hermione, who instructed Severus to wait for her in the lobby. After they’d exchanged clarifying information, additional instruction, and the usual farewell pleasantries, her eyes took on a steely quality as she asked, “Sir, do you adhere to the strictures and uphold the standards of doctor/patient confidentiality.

Her inquiry left the good doctor looking abashed. “Hermione?” he asked, perplexed by her sudden seriousness and her insinuation that he was anything but professional.

“I’m sorry, sir, I know, I just need to hear you affirm it.”

He seemed to stumble over his words, stroking his chin with his hand, “Of course, I treat every one of my patient’s privacy with vigilance and care. Look, if this is about your parents, I’m legally bound to secrecy, but I wouldn’t tell them in the first place. I’ve zero desire to upend your life in any way, okay dear?” he patted her on the shoulder, before turning to leave, and Hermione let out a heavy sigh, leaning against the wall for a moment with a series of panting breaths. Standing up to authority figures like Dr. Baker affected her own anxiety.

* * *

 

When they returned to the Granger homestead, Hermione bent down to pick that day’s paper off the ground, tucking it under her arm as they entered the house; she sat down at the table and unfurled the Prophet, while he set to work on making her a cup of tea. Watching her read the article, he saw her eyes widen and her mouth fall open, heard the rasp of paper in her hands, trembling with rage as she scanned the lines, the fury flaring in her eyes. He removed the page from her grasp and perused it himself, his own reaction muted by prior expectation. The headline read " _Snape, Granger Spotted in London!!!_ " the writer none other than the gossip hag herself, Rita Skeeter.

_The disappearance of Hermione Granger is one I've covered extensively, and it appears we have a startling break in the case! A source, who shall remain anonymous for the purposes of this article, has come forward with the claim that they saw Ms. Granger in London, and in the company of none other than Severus Snape, whose “death” has been a mysterious matter of debate. Remember, you read it here first! My source mentioned that the two were partially disguised but assures me their voices revealed, with near certainty, their true identities; the anonymous informant is convinced that the behavior they witnessed between the two hints towards a deeper relationship. "The girl walked quite closely with him, whispering in his ear...you know the way. And the way he looked at her. It was unmistakable." Fearing they were armed, the informant did not pursue them any further. So, how did this odd coupling come to pass? Knowing what I know of Ms. Granger, she is ruthless. I imagine the former headmaster handed down a grade she wouldn't stand for, so she decided to earn a higher one in a way the lonely man was all too willing to accommodate, sparking the illicit affair that has continued to this day. Seeing as she likely played an instrumental role in his escape and helping him go into hiding, I wonder, how long has she been a part of his plans? How deep does this rabbit hole go, my dear readers? Trust me, loyal devotees of the Prophet, I will not stand until I have the answers. Is the disgraced headmaster a sexual predator with an eye for the bookish fille fatale, or is Ms. Granger a succubus with a secret agenda? Only time (and I) will tell._


End file.
